


All is Fair

by Maril



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Botnapping, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Interfaction relationships, Jazz knows what he wants, M/M, Mech Preg (Transformers), Optimus is Optimus, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prowl is trying, Prowl needs a hug, Slow Burn, Spark Sexual Interfacing (Transformers), Sparklings, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Torture, Transformer Sparklings, War, but he cares
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:54:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 77,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23162065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maril/pseuds/Maril
Summary: He turned back to the window he had been facing, staring into the pitch-black night and tried to compose himself while on the inside he was breaking apart.This has to be, it was the only logical choice. For Praxus.*In the midst of the Autobot/Decepticon war, a single mech has to make a decision that he might just regret in the future.
Relationships: Barricade/Prowl, Blurr/Shockwave, Jazz/Prowl, Megatron/Optimus Prime, Ratchet/Wheeljack (Transformers)
Comments: 170
Kudos: 209





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys:)
> 
> This was an idea that entered my mind and just wouldn't let me be until I started to write it down. I already have a few chapters that only need some editing, but this story is nowhere near done...
> 
> I hope you enjoy it:)

He stared down at the sleeping form next to him, unable to look away. His blue optics were the only light in the dark, even Cybertron’s two moons didn’t shine tonight. He sighed and traced the white accents on dark blue plating with his servo. His spark clenched with anguish, throbbing with guilt about what he had to do. He couldn’t. 

He had to.

It was his duty, he needed to protect, even if it meant to betray what he held most dear. He pressed his lips together, cleansing fluids spilling from his optics. He couldn’t do this. 

::My Lord?::

He flinched. There was no backing out now. The guards he had called earlier had arrived after all, and now he couldn’t go back. Did he wish he wanted to turn back time and undo what he had done? His optics looked into the peaceful face of his lover and he sighed. No, he wouldn’t. This needed to be done. No use in delaying it any further.

He gave the command for the doors to his chamber to open and stood up. 

“Love?” His lover’s sleepy voice was laced with static.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered. He saw comprehension dawning on his lover’s face and looked away, unable to face the betrayal etched on that beautiful faceplate, golden optics dim with hurt. “In the name of High Lord Silverstreak, you are under arrest for consorting with the Decepticons.” He turned to the guards. “Take him.” 

“Fragging glitch.” His lover – ex-lover? – hissed, doorwings spread aggressively as the guards bound his arms behind his back. “You’re nothing but a selfish glitch, using others for your goals until you discard them like the cold, sparkless _drone_ you are!”

The guards dragged the bound mech out of the chambers, and he shuttered his optics, believing himself alone. The tears that had stopped spilling flowed down his cheeks again and he pressed a servo to his mouth, shutting off his vocaliser to prevent any sound to escape his lips.

“Your Highness?” A worried voice asked.

He jerked, doorwings spreading before settling back into a neutral position. He wiped his face to get rid of the tear tracks, then turned to face the captain of his guard. “I’m fine. Tell the High Lords and the Court to gather in the throne room, I will join you momentarily.” His voice was as level as always.

“Of course, my Lord. What should I tell them?”

“Tell them we have a traitor in our midst.” He turned back to the window he had been facing, staring into the pitch-black night and tried to compose himself while on the inside he was breaking apart. 

_This has to be, it was the only logical choice. For Praxus._


	2. Chapter 1: Target Practice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I am going to Praxus. Remember when you said that sending me away was the best decision for your city? Well, I have to disagree. You see, I have Lord Megatron’s favour, and I asked him to help me court you. I want us to be bonded, love, but for that I first need to kill your bondmate. And, of course, to do this right, we must complete the Conjunx Ritus.” Barricade leaned in, whispering against Prowl’s lips. “My first act will be to raze Praxus to the ground.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys:)  
> Wow, I have to say I'm positively surprised about how many kudos the prologue received. Thank you!
> 
> Now, the first chapter. I'm really nervous about it, since it contains the rape (it's the only one with it, even though rape is mentioned in future chapters. If it's something you don't want to read, just scroll down after: “Barricade…” Prowl whispered. “Please, don’t.” to the next stars.) It's not too explicit, though.
> 
> Also, some exposition in the beginning, just bear with me:)
> 
> ::Short range comms::  
> :: _Long range comms_ ::  
> ~ _Bond_ ~

Praxus. Notoriously neutral in past wars waging Cybertron. That fact had never changed in its long, long history, at least not since the city-state had left its bloody warmongering. The city was ruled by the House of the Singing Crystals, the femme who had founded it had lived during the Dark Ages. This house had always been the strongest, and had always ruled Praxus.

The current Lords of Praxus was Lord Silverstreak of the Singing Crystals, a stern but just mech, and his consort, Lord Dash. They had two creations, Lord Prowl and Lord Side Burn.

Prowl was the Crowned Heir of Praxus, being the elder creation. He was bonded to a noble named Strider and they had a sparkling together, Silvergrace, but she wasn’t Prowl’s only creation. No, the Lord had first carried Smokescreen, who was nearly a full-grown mech.

Side Burn, on the other servo, was a free mech, usually serving as emissary. Where his brother was dignified and majestic, he could be found in parties and was usually looking for fun time. 

However, it was Smokescreen’s revenge seeking sire that set a series of events in motion that no one could have anticipated.

***

Prowl slowly came by. The first thing he noticed were his cuffed wrists, carrying his weight. The next thing he registered was that his pedes barely touched the ground. It might explain why his arms hurt so much. Several alerts popped up on his HUD, but Prowl quickly dismissed them. His optics slowly flickered online and he immediately wished he could fall back into stasis.

He was in a dungeon, it appeared, chained to the ceiling. Opposite to him was the entrance to his cell, a force field, if he was correct. Prowl’s battle computer immediately started to calculate and simulate ways to escape this situation. Satisfied that he wasn’t about to crash, Prowl tried to remember how he got here. His processor gave him an image of him and Smokescreen walking through the Helix Garden, discussing the latter’s upcoming last upgrade – 

_Smokescreen!_ Prowl remembered now. They had lost contact with their guards, being cornered into a secluded corner of the garden, and then –

Nothing. The next thing he was able to recall was waking up here. Prowl looked around and nearly cried out in relief when he saw his creation’s form in one corner.

“Smokescreen!” Prowl whispered insistently, or at least tried to, but the only thing leaving his vocaliser was static. “Smokescreen, wake up.” This time he was able to speak, still static-laden though. No reaction. Prowl sighed. He tried to remember anything else about how they had ended up here, but his CPU couldn’t come up with any other information. The door suddenly opened and several mechs entered the cell. Prowl tensed and his doorwings flared as he recognised one of them. “Barricade.” He said softly, surprised.

Barricade smirked. He had changed his colours, permanently it seemed. It was a painful procedure, but doable. His ground colour now was black with some silver thrown into the mix. Decepticon purple finished off his looks, accenting him in the right places and drawing attention to his chevron. His optics shone a brilliant red. 

Prowl had to consciously suppress his doorwings from shivering. Even after all those vorns, even after the sparkbreak he had caused him, Barricade was still beautiful. “Hello, Prowl. It’s been quite a while.” He motioned for two of his guards to pick up Smokescreen and kick him awake.

“Stop!” Prowl cried out, his body immediately straining against his bonds, trying to help his creation. Smokescreen suddenly whimpered, curling away from his tormentors. 

Barricade chuckled. “Smokescreen, good of you to join us.” 

The mechling stared at him, then at Prowl, and choked out a sob. “Carrier…”

“I’m alright.” Prowl replied, giving his creation a strained smiled.

Smokescreen nodded and bit his lip, and Prowl’s spark broke for the scared look in his creation’s optics. But Smokescreen was nothing if brave, and he turned towards Barricade, hate written all over his handsome faceplates. “What do you want from us?” He asked. 

Barricade tilted his helm. Instead of answering, he said, “Do you know who I am?”

Smokescreen snorted. “Carrier told me who sparked him up, but you are no one to me.” 

Barricade growled and slapped him before turning to Prowl. “I see that your education has been too lax, my dear intended. The House of the High Lord of Praxus apparently isn’t what it used to be.” He stepped closer to the chained mech, running a finger down Prowl’s chestplate seam. Prowl twitched and growled, his doorwings flicking insultingly. His captor barked a laugh. “Who’d have guessed that you out of all mechs knew such crude language! I certainly didn’t, and I dare say I know you quite well.”

“No, you do not. What do you want? Why are we here?” 

Barricade smiled and cupped Prowl’s cheek. “I want what I was once promised. You were meant to be my bonded, not to that weakling Strider.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have allied yourself with the Decepticons.” Prowl hissed. “Praxus is, and has always been, neutral. Your political involvement and your obvious support of the Decepticons was a danger for our city. All you had to do was to disassociate yourself from them, and I would have been yours. But you didn’t. My creators had no choice but to exile you from Praxus. _I_ had no choice, even if I was carrying your sparkling.”

Barricade snarled and leaned so close that their lips were nearly touching. “You had a choice. You could have fought for us. You could have insisted that our creation would not grow up without his sire. He–”

“No, Barricade, you misunderstand.” Prowl interrupted him, his doorwings held up high in a proud position. “I did not want you near Smokescreen. Not after everything the Decepticons had done, not after everything _you_ did. It was the best for him – and for Praxus.”

“Really?” Barricade breathed, then leaned in to claim Prowl’s lips in a possessive kiss. Prowl bit him. Hard. The Decepticon jerked away and cursed, touching a servo to his split lower lip. “We’ll see about that.” He turned and moved towards the exit. Just before he reached it, he turned around. “It was an honour, my Lord.” He gave a mocking bow, then left, taking his guards with him.

The moment they were alone Prowl sagged in his chains, then hissed as his weight put strain on his already sore wrists. 

“’Tor.” Smokescreen murmured and stepped up to him. He pulled a cloth from his subspace, then moved in to gently wipe the Energon from his carrier’s lips.

“I’m alright.” Prowl replied softly and flexed his servos to test the cuffs. Having served as an enforcer before his official coronation as Heir, he was quite familiar with restraints. That’s how he knew that, unfortunately, he would not be able to get out of them, nor had Smokescreen any way to break them. They were trapped in here, for the time being. 

“What do you think Barricade wants from us?” Smokescreen asked, inspecting his carrier’s frame for any injuries.

“I honestly do not know.” Prowl said, frowning deeply. This was what really concerned him: why were they here? Why now?

***

Several cycles had passed since Barricade had talked to them, and they had yet to see him again. The only ones to visit them were guards that came to bring them fuel. One cube each cycle, as far as Prowl could tell, if they hadn’t tampered with his internal chronometer. Smokescreen always gave Prowl the Energon first, making him drink a bit more than half of the cube, then downing the rest himself. His carrier had protested at first, but Smokescreen had argued that since Prowl was practically hanging from the ceiling, he needed the Energon more than he. Which was logical.

Prowl hoped that his creators were close to finding them. He really wanted to get out of here, mostly for Smokescreen’s sake. It did not sit very well with him that his creation was so close to Barricade and, through him, the Decepticons.

Two cycles later, Barricade entered the cell with five guards. Two grabbed Smokescreen, making him kneel and face Prowl. The black and purple Decepticon smiled. “Prowl, Smokescreen, my favourite Praxians. How are you?”

“Go to the Pits.” Smokescreen spat. Prowl didn’t reprimand him.

Barricade ex-vented slowly. “Careful, young one. You being alive is not exactly a given.”

“Then why _am_ I alive?”

“Smokescreen!” Prowl hissed.

Barricade chuckled. “Good question.” He walked around Prowl, stopped when he was behind the noble. Prowl could ‘see’ him step closer and tensed, doorwings freezing. Then Barricade leaned against him. “I missed you, love.” He murmured, nuzzling Prowl’s neck with his head, before pressing a soft kiss on one of the cables.

“I did not.” Prowl said with clenched dentae. It was a lie, though. Despite everything, a part of his spark still clung to his ex-lover. A servo pinched the side of his wing and Prowl gasped, cutting off the sound quickly by muting his vocalizer. 

“Oh, no.” Barricade reprimanded and nibbled at the cable. “I want to hear you.”

Prowl’s optics widened. “What?” 

A servo trailed down his spinal strut to his interface panels, scraping lightly at them. Prowl twitched to get away from the offending servo, but it was no use. “You see, after all this time, I still desire you. There was no one else to pique my interest, no one who was really satisfying. Because whenever I meet somebody, I think of you. Every. Single. Fragging. Time.” He underlined every word with a touch to a different sensitive spot of Prowl’s doorwings, knowing exactly where to touch his ex-lover. 

Prowl moaned softly at the familiar touch. It has been too long since he had last been taken to berth, since the emerge of Silvergrace to be precise, his and Strider’s first and only creation. Prowl and his sparkmate respected and liked each other, but not enough to interface. Their bond was quite weak, too, which was why they could not communicate through it. Prowl had tried to reach out to his second creation, with whom he had a strong bond, but she was either recharging or unconscious, because he didn’t get any answer that way, either. And the bonds with his creators had long since been reduced to simple familiar bonds, as it always happened when reaching the final upgrades.

“Now, I know you would refuse me if it were up to you, but that’s where Smokescreen comes in.” Prowl’s startled optics snapped to where his creation was kneeling. The mechling’s faceplates were twisted with horror and fear, and Prowl realised that Smokescreen had understood what was about to happen. “Obey, and he will live. Disobey, and, well…” One of the guards held a gun to Smokescreen’s helm, who started to tremble.

“Barricade…” Prowl whispered. “Please, don’t.” His battle computer was already running simulations as to how to get out of this situation, but up to now, there was no way. “Please don’t make Smokescreen watch–” His vocalizer glitched into static.

“And risk you denying me what I want? I don’t think so.” He tapped against Prowl’s valve. “Open up, love.” With a last desperate glance at Smokescreen, Prowl did as asked. Barricade pushed a finger into him, and the noble shuttered his optics, trying to centre himself. “And so you know, love,” Barricade breathed against his audial receptors, “I will make this enjoyable for you, and you will not mute your vocaliser. It depends on you, really, for how long this will take. And you will overload in the end, that I promise.” Prowl whimpered and tugged at his restraints, but it was no use. Barricade chuckled softly. “Enjoy, sweetspark.” And with that, he thrust his spike into Prowl’s valve. 

Prowl couldn’t help it, he screamed as both pain and pleasure, humiliation and want filled his systems.

***

Prowl woke with a start. His optics flickered, so he reset them. His arms and wrists hurt more than before and – Prowl groaned softly and hung his helm, feeling utterly used and violated, and what would usually be a good kind of sore, but not in this context.

“Carrier?” 

Smokescreen’ soft and hesitant question broke through his thoughts. He lifted his helm and focused his optics on his creation. “Smokescreen… I’m sorry. Are you alright?”

The younger Praxian stared at him. “You were just…” Smokescreen hissed an insult and his doorwings flickered in an even more offending way, before continuing. “You were just raped, and you’re asking _me_ if I’m right?”

Prowl gave him a weak smile. “Are you?” His wings swayed gently, concerned.

Smokescreen averted his optics. “…no.” Prowl waited, patiently. Finally, his creation continued. “Why – why would he do that? Why…” He whimpered, then threw himself at his carrier, snuggling close. Prowl tried not to move and nuzzled Smokescreen’s helm with his own, the only comfort he could offer with his arms tied above him. Well, not the only one. He engulfed his creation with his EM field, trying to fill it with as much love and comfort as he could. And he reached out through their creator/creation bond, sending warmth.

~ _Would it be better if I would be deactivated?_ ~ Smokescreen asked through their bond.

“No!” Prowl exclaimed, his doorwings expanding, then he calmed himself. ~ _No, bitlet. Why would you think that?_ ~

~ _Because Barricade couldn’t force you to do this anymore._ ~

Prowl ex-vented softly. ~ _He would find another way. And I am too selfish to lose you._ ~ The rest of Smokescreen’s first message registered on his processor. ~ _Smokescreen, do you have a weapon?_ ~

His creation squirmed a bit. ~ _Yes, carrier. I’m sorry. But I checked with Skids, and he agreed that I needed a way to protect myself, so he gave me two daggers. He said that no one could find them unless they_ knew _the daggers were in my subspace. Skids said I should take them with me to the party as a test run._ ~ He froze and his wings slumped. ~ _Why didn’t I think of them earlier?_ ~

~ _It does not matter now. And we could not have used them, anyway. We do not know where we are and how to get out or away._ ~ Prowl hesitated, then decided that it would be best if Smokescreen knew. ~ _Bitlet, I have to tell you something and I need you to do as I say, understood?_ ~

~ _Understood._ ~

~ _Good._ ~ Prowl pressed his chevron against Smokescreen’s. ~ _Barricade will take my spark, sooner or later. It’s alright._ ~ He added at his creation’s distressed trill, crooning his engine. ~ _And after he has left, we will escape. I will hack into his systems, get every single piece of information we need. Then, when we’re alone, I need you to cut my cuffs and give me one of your daggers. We will escape when they bring us our next Energon ration._ ~

~ _But won’t hacking into Barricade’s systems make it more likely for you to get sparked?_ ~ Smokescreen asked concerned.

~ _It does._ ~ Prowl admitted. ~ _But it is a risk I am willing to take._ ~ He would do anything for his creation.

~ _Alright_ ~ Smokescreen replied, doorwings twitching with frail hope. 

Prowl smiled softly and pressed his lips against Smokescreen’s chevron. ~ _Good. Now recharge, you need to rest._ ~

***

Barricade returned every other orn, taking Prowl in front of their creation and the Decepticon guards. Sometimes he tortured Prowl with a long knife before and/or after he raped him, cutting just deep enough to draw Energon, but never to seriously harm him. The Heir to the High Lord of Praxus tried to feed his battle computer lies about his situation so that it didn’t glitch out, but that only resulted in crashing his systems, so he refrained from it after the third time.

Barricade’s visits continued for three and a half quartexes, then the event Prowl had predicted happened. Instead of walking around the noble as he had done before, Barricade stepped in front of him and trailed a servo down Prowl’s chestplate seams. “Open up.” He commanded softly. Prowl snarled at him. “Alright.” He lifted a servo, the beginning of the order to execute Smokescreen, and Prowl lowered his helm, parting his chestplates. Icy blue light immediately filled the dungeon, shining eerily over Barricade.

Exposing one’s spark was the most intimate gesture a Cybertronian could do, at least that was the custom for nobility and higher castes. Up to that point, only six mechs had seen Prowl’s spark: his creators, Barricade, Strider, an old friend (and his first lover; Prowl trusted with his life) and Bandage, the medic of the High Lord’s house. Now it was exposed to Barricade, his creation and the five guards with them.

The black and purple mech stepped forward, enthralled, and trailed a servo along the crystal of Prowl’s spark chamber. “No matter how often I see it, it’s still breathtaking.” He said reverently. Prowl moaned quietly at the touch. Barricade smiled at the sound, then leaned in to press a kiss to the spark, and Prowl threw his head back, a high-pitched keen leaving his lips as pleasure started to fill his systems. No matter how much time had passed, Barricade still knew how to please him, better than Strider ever had. It cast a very strange light on his interface-life. 

Barricade chuckled, and the vibrations had Prowl trembling. He fed his processor more energy, reminding it of the task it had the moment his tormentor would join their sparks. Those lips finally left his spark to claim Prowl’s, his glossa demanding entrance to the higher noble’s mouth. Prowl gave it to him, mostly to hurry Barricade along. 

It seemed that the Decepticon was eager to have his spark, since he didn’t draw this out as he had before. Instead he opened his own chestplates and pressed their sparks together. Both mechs moaned loudly at the touch, but Prowl immediately focused on his goal: get every single piece of information he needed to get Smokescreen and himself out of this misery. 

He carefully hacked into Barricade’s systems, already too familiar with this process. It was this way that he had found out of his ex-lover’s loyalties, and it was through hacking Strider’s systems that he found out that his bondmate would be loyal to him until he died. Now, the hacking gave Prowl what he wanted: their location, the best way to break out of this dungeon, when the best time was and what he should do once they had reclaimed their freedom.

Prowl smiled triumphantly against Barricade’s lips and disconnected the line, then allowed himself to overload, pulling his ex-lover with him. He slumped into his chains, feeling utterly exhausted, but fought the urge to fall into recharge. Both of their panting was drowned out by their cooling fans. Barricade smiled and pressed a soft kiss to Prowl’s lips. 

“It’s as good as I remember. Now, be a good mech and don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.” When Prowl didn’t respond, he raised an optic ridge. “What, no question as to where I am going?”

“Where are you going?” Prowl asked.

Barricade closed his chestplates and stepped back, then reached out to touch Prowl’s spark with his servo. The Crown Prince hissed, but didn’t move. “I am going to Praxus. Remember when you said that sending me away was the best decision for your city? Well, I have to disagree. You see, I have Lord Megatron’s favour, and I asked him to help me court you. I want us to be bonded, love, but for that I first need to kill your bondmate. And, of course, to do this right, we must complete the Conjunx Ritus.” Barricade leaned in, whispering against Prowl’s lips. “My first act will be to raze Praxus to the ground.” 

Prowl felt as if his internals had been frozen. Fear claimed his processor while his battle computer simulated different ways to level a whole city, even though a part of his CPU told him that it would be impossible. Several warnings popped up on his HUD, but Prowl was too shocked to do anything.

“NO!” Smokescreen screamed, starting to struggle against his captors, only to be slapped for his efforts.

Barricade chuckled and kissed Prowl’s spark a last time, then turned around and left the cells, his guards trailing after him, leaving a distressed mechling and a catatonic Lord behind.

***

Eventually, Prowl managed to pull himself together. That he and Smokescreen escaped was suddenly more important than before. He closed his chestplates and searched for his creation. Smokescreen had curled into a tight ball in a corner to Prowl’s right, staring blankly at a distant point.

“Smokescreen.” Prowl said, and his creation startled. “We need to hurry.”

Understanding downed on Smokescreen’s faceplates, and he stood up while unsubspacing his two Energon daggers. He first severed the chain keeping Prowl in a standing position. The older Praxian fell to his knees, relieved to finally being able to move into another position. Smokescreen then cut through one cuff after the other, and finally, _finally_ , after a bit over three and a half quartexes, Prowl was free again.

The monochrome Praxian rubbed his wrists, then pulled in his creation for a hug. Smokescreen buried his helm in Prowl’s shoulder and began to cry. They stayed like this for a while, until Prowl pulled back. He took in his creation’s face and cupped it, gently wiping away the cooling liquids. “The guard will soon be here. Be prepared.”

Smokescreen nodded, sniffed one last time, then offered his carrier one of the daggers. Prowl smiled at him and accepted the weapon, quickly rising and positioning himself next to the entrance. Smokescreen copied his movement and together they waited for the guard to arrive.

The poor femme didn’t know what hit her, and she was dead before she even touched the ground. Prowl caught her to keep her impact on the floor from making too much noise and therefore alerting other guards that there was something wrong. He silently pressed the Energon cube into Smokescreen’s free servo and took her gun for himself, before pulling the femme into the cell and searching her subspaces. Shanix and Energon goodies were his price, which the noble put into his own subspace. He exited first, making sure that there was no one who would harm them, then beckoned his creation to come out.

Prowl reactivated the force field, then flickered his right doorwing, silently commanding his creation to follow him. Every guard they met was taken down by the Lord before they could raise alarm, his military training kicking in (yes, he had served as an enforcer, but after his coronation he had undergone military training to be able to lead the Praxian Army).

Smokescreen watched with detached optics as his carrier killed mech after mech, femme after femme, and then relieved them of whatever they had in their subspaces. Both disliked violence, coming from a neutral and more or less pacifistic city, but both understood that this was necessary. And Prowl would do so much more to ensure his creation’s safety. 

Finally, after seemingly endless breems, they exited the building they had been kept in. Prowl found two dark blue cloaks for them, cutting two holes for their wings to go through the cloth. They would still stick out as Praxians, but at least nobody would see the state they were in – especially the paint transfer and the healing cuts on the older mech.

“Where are we?” Smokescreen asked as he followed his carrier.

“Altihex.” Prowl replied, turning to his right to walk down a broad street. One servo clenched the dagger, the other one kept a tight grip on Smokescreen. “We should reach the transport station in a few breems, and if we are lucky, get a transport to Iacon.”

“Iacon?” Smokescreen asked. “Shouldn’t we go to Praxus? Warn them about what will happen?”

“Praxus is too far away, bitlet. It would take us too long to reach it. Iacon, on the other servo, is much closer, and the Autobots are there.”

The mechling cried out. “Auto–!”

“Quiet!” Prowl hissed. Smokescreen fell silent. “While Altihex appears to be neutral, it is an open secret that it is used by Decepticons for ‘target practice’. There are spying audials everywhere, young one, it is better to talk quietly.”

“Of course, carrier.” Prowl nodded and pulled Smokescreen after him into the station, quickly studying the board. “There is a transport leaving for Iacon in a few breems. Come on, we need to hurry.”

Prowl purchased two tickets for them with the shanix he had looted earlier, and they boarded the shuttle on the last klik. Reminding Smokescreen to hide his relieve and happiness until they were truly safe, the Heir led them to their seats. He had long since subspaced his weapons, thanking Primus for the lax security in Altihex. 

A blue servo pushed itself into his optical range, holding their daily ration of Energon. Prowl smiled and flickered one doorwing in thanks, then drank half of the cube, before giving it back to Smokescreen. The mechling grinned, then drained the rest and sighed happily.

Prowl touched his cheek. “Recharge. You will need the energy.” Smokescreen eyed their surroundings, and Prowl chuckled. “I will watch over you, don’t worry.” That was, apparently, all the reassurance his creation needed, because the next klik he was already in deep recharge, curled into his carrier’s side. Prowl’s optics softened at the deep trust Smokescreen had in him, before sitting back and taking on an icy mask. Anyone who dared to approach them would pay with Energon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think? Love it? Hate it? Any mistakes? Thanks for reading!:)


	3. Chapter 2: The Autobots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Never show weakness_ , was one of the first rules his creators had taught him. And Prowl never had. Not when Barricade had left him, not when he found out that he was carrying, not when he had to bond with Strider. Not even during his time in Barricade’s clutches. 
> 
> And now he had broken that rule. Twice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, thank you so much for all the feedback for the previous chapter! It made me really happy, each comment and kudos alert putting a smile on my face. So, thanky for making my day! :)
> 
> Anyways, here's the next chapter, and stuff happens. 'Cause I love to make Prowl suffer before he gets happy, which is why this had to happen. 
> 
> So warning for this chapter: death of a youngling. 
> 
> Also, just to be on the safe side: Transformers doesn't belong to me, don't sue me, I'm just a poor student.

Smokescreen started to whimper in his recharge a few joors into their flight. They would arrive in Iacon in another two joors, and up to now the flight had been calm. Nobody had approached or looked twice at them. Now, though, some passengers started to eye them.

“Smokescreen.” Prowl said insistently. “Smokescreen, wake up.” He grimaced as he remembered that he was repeating the same glyphs he had used when he had first regained consciousness after their capture. However, unlike that time, Smokescreen did not remain motionless. On the contrary, his creation started to whine and writhe. “Smokescreen!” Prowl exclaimed, cupping the mechling’s cheek with one servo, gently shaking him with the other. When it still didn’t help, the Heir desperately reached through their bond. He gasped at the fear he felt, but clenched his dental plates and continued to try and reach the young Praxian.

Smokescreen suddenly screamed and shot up, arms flailing. Prowl caught the limbs before he got hit. “Bitlet, calm down. You are safe, I promise, you are safe.” His creation sobbed, then climbed into his carrier’s lab and buried his face into Prowl’s neck. The monochrome Praxian gathered him close, hugging and rocking him to calm him down. He mingled their fields, projecting tranquillity and security. “We are safe now. We are safe now.” He pressed his lips against Smokescreen’s golden chevron.

A soft sigh escaped the black and white mech. Barricade had once had a golden chevron, too, before colouring it purple. Mechs and femmes were still glancing at them, but they stopped when Prowl glared at them. Finally, after another two long joors without recharge, they arrived in Iacon. While Prowl had hoped they would land closer to the city centre and, consequentially, the Prime Palace, the port they arrived at was in the outskirts of Iacon.

Prowl fought down his annoyance and looked around for a shuttle. There was no way he could transform. For one, because he felt safer in his root form than his alt form, and second because he did not want anyone to see him without his cloak. He still had some pride left.

“Sir? Are you alright?” Both Praxians flinched at the sudden deep voice. A tall red mech with gentle blue optics looked at them with worry. 

“We are fine, thank you.” Smokescreen said aggressively, standing protectively in front of his carrier, doorwings spread threateningly.

Prowl placed a servo on Smokescreen’ shoulder and squeezed it reassuringly. Figures he would be protective of him after all that had happened. “It’s alright, Smokescreen.” He eyed the red mech, optics focused on the symbol pranging on his chestplates beneath two big windshields. “You are an Autobot?”

The red mech nodded. “Lieutenant-General Inferno, at your service.”

Prowl contemplated him. LTG Inferno had a very high rank for being sent to patrol the outskirts of Iacon, but maybe the Autobots had their reasons. “We have vital information that needs to get to Praxus as soon as possible.”

“Isn’t Praxus neutral?” Inferno asked with a frown.

“Yes. But still, we need the Autobot’s help for this.” Prowl hesitated. “Please.” Inferno still looked unsure. “I have it from a very good source that the Decepticons are planning a devastating attack on Praxus. We do not have the military force to defend ourselves, no matter what is said. Praxus does not have the luxury of remaining neutral in this war anymore. So, please, let me talk to whoever is in charge – the Prime, if it is possible – to save my city.”

Inferno pressed a servo to the side of his helm, optics going distant. After a few kliks, he nodded. “Alright. There’s a transport coming to our location in eight breems. It will take us to the Prime Palace.”

Prowl’s doorwings sagged with relieve before he composed himself again. “You have our thanks.”

Inferno smiled. “My pleasure. I have to warn you, though, you will be searched, so it might be best if you give up any weapon you have before you enter the building. The guards will give them back to you when you leave.” 

Prowl nodded. “A wise decision. We will cooperate fully.” 

Inferno grinned. “Thanks. Uhm, I think I didn’t catch your names…?”

“Forgive our negligence. I am…” He hesitated for a nano-klik, then deemed it safer to not reveal who they really were. “Silverburn and this is Smokescreen.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Inferno smiled.

He didn’t bother with small-talk, for which Prowl was very grateful, as well as for the fact that the ride took only a joor. It wasn’t long before they were standing in front of the Prime Palace. Even accustomed to the glory of his home, it was nothing compared to this. The Palace was breathtaking and humbling at the same time. Delicate golden towers reached high into the sky, sparkling in deep red and blue from the crystals worked into the walls. There was a low humming sound, continuously changing in pitch, and Prowl’s doorwings twitched with surprise. Those were singing crystals. Building the Palace must have cost a fortune. 

He and Smokescreen followed Inferno inside, and while Prowl was able to reign in his curiosity and merely let his doorwings take in whatever he could not see, Smokescreen was staring at his surroundings with awe. Prowl allowed himself a small, soft smile. It was good to see that their time in Barricade’s dungeons had not dimmed his creation’s curiosity. 

“Alright.” Inferno said. He halted next to a few guards. “Take off your weapons. The guards will check you afterwards if you’re still hiding anything, but there shouldn’t be any problems.”

Prowl nodded, and unsubspaced his dagger and the gun, then flickered a doorwing at Smokescreen. His creation pulled his own dagger from his subspace, but it was obvious that he did so only reluctantly. Prowl made a mental note to make sure that he would find somebody Smokescreen could talk to about what had happened. 

After they passed the security checks, Inferno led them through endless corridors to a meeting room. The door softly swooshed open, revealing a holographic table in the centre. It appeared to be a map of Cybertron, coloured in red and purple according to which faction was occupying which area. Six mechs were occupying the conference room, two of those Prowl recognized: Optimus Prime and Ultra Magnus, Second in Command of the Autobot Army and current Head Tactician. Until they found somebody else, that was, since the last one had been assassinated.

They immediately stopped talking when Inferno knocked and entered, both Praxians trailing after him. Prowl bowed deeply to the Prime and noted with satisfaction that Smokescreen did so as well, without needing any prompting. He had raised his creation well. Belatedly he noticed that the Prime wasn’t wearing his battle mask. It allowed show his surprisingly beautiful face, full light blue lips curled into a gentle smile. It was a strange sight after only having seen him with it.

Inferno turned to the Prime. “Sir, these are Silverburn and Smokescreen. They’re the ones I told you about.”

Prowl returned their gazes. Prime had a contemplating look on his face. Was it possible that he recognized them, even as grimy and battered as they were?

“You said you had intel?” Prime finally said.

Prowl gave a sharp nod. “The Decepticons plan on annihilating Praxus. We need to evacuate the city.”

“Annihilate a whole city?” A mech, coloured mainly in white and with red and black accents, snorted. “That’s not possible.”

“I do not wish to believe so either, but the Decepticon I got this information from does not joke regarding that matter.” Prowl replied calmly, even though inwardly he was screaming at them to take action and save his people.

“Even if we would believe ya,” This time it was a red, yellow and silver mech who spoke, and Prowl refrained his doorwings from twitching in surprise as he saw that that Autobot was a host frame. “Praxus is neutral. Why should they listen t’ us? Wouldn’t they jus’ accuse us o’ some elaborate way t’ make ‘em join th’ bots?”

Prowl grimaced. He was right. Indeed, had Prowl been the one to receive such a message, he would have thought so, too. If the Autobots were the ones to deliver it, that is. But Prowl was the one who would warn them, and they just _had_ to believe him. 

“Please, just… call them. Even if they do not believe us, they must be warned. And if I can only safe one hundred Praxians, then it will be worth the effort.” Begging the Autobots left a bitter taste in Prowl’s mouth. He wasn’t used to ask for something repeatedly, especially while having to use a submissive tone. Nevertheless, without his longrange comms and no shanix to repair them, this was the only way to reach Praxus in time. Knowing this, he forced his wings into a begging position as well.

Prime eyed him a bit more. Smokescreen shifted next to him, doorwings flapping nervously. Prowl put a servo on his shoulder and touched his creation’s field with his own calm one. The Prime finally nodded. “Blaster, open a communication line with Praxus.”

The mech with the Cassettes stepped forward, and Prowl gave him the direct line to his House’s Council Chamber. His creators and their most trusted advisors should be there at this time of the cycle, discussing economics and finances and the war’s influence on their trade, or at least somebody was there all the time. There was no answer and Prowl tensed, but finally, after a few nerve grating kliks, their call was accepted. Smokescreen ex-vented with relief, doorwings sweeping up.

Prowl and Smokescreen were out of the visual field, but could see everything on the screen. Skid’s familiar blue frame appeared, and Prowl sighed softly. 

“Honourable Prime.” The Head of the Praxian Military Force and Royal Guard greeted with a swift bow. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”

“General Skids, the pleasure is mine. I called you to pass along a warning: the Decepticons are about to attack Praxus, and it would be in your best interest to evacuate the city.” Prime replied.

A look of disbelieve appeared on Skid’s face. “Decepticons? Attacking Praxus? Surely, you must be mistaken. Our city is neutral, there is no threat for us.”

“Told ya.” Blaster muttered, golden optics flashing.

Optimus tilted his helm. “I would gain nothing with lying to you. You have my word that this warning is genuine.”

“Your word is much indeed, Honourable Prime, but pardon me if I do not believe you.” Skids said politely. Prowl watched the General’s doorwings and sighed. Optimus Prime would not be able to convince him.

“Then maybe you will heed my words, General.” Prowl said softly and stepped forward.

Skid’s optics widened with shock and wonder. “Prowl! You’re alive!” Prowl flickered one doorwing and the General grimaced. “Ah, forgive me my familiarity, Your Highness. I am merely relieved to see you are alright. Your abduction has grieved us, and we were looking for you.” He hesitated. “What about Prince Smokescreen?”

“I’m fine, Skids.” Smokescreen stepped up to Prowl and grinned. “The daggers you gave me saved us.” 

Skid’s doorwings trembled. “I am glad that they were of good use. Your Highness, if you excuse me, I must inform your creators–”

“No.” Prowl said. “What the honourable Prime said is true. The Decepticons are marching towards Praxus as we speak, their minds set on levelling our city. You must evacuate, now!”

Skids’ left doorwing twitched nervously. “I wish there was something I could do, Your Highness, but–”

“But if he warns anybody, his beloved ward will die.” Prowl froze at the voice. No. No, no, no, no, no. This couldn’t be.

“Barricade.” He whispered, his wings jerking up into an aggressive position.

Skids was pushed aside, and a very familiar and loathed face appeared on the screen. “Hello, Prowl. My, my, I told you to stay where I left you until I returned.”

Prowl all but growled. “What are you doing at the palace?”

The black and purple mech smirked. “Why so snippy, love?” A ripple went through the Autobots at the address, but once again, Prowl paid them no mind. “You can’t be missing me already, can you?”

“What. Are. You. Doing. In. My. City.” Prowl repeated through gritted dentae.

Barricade sighed. “Always so focused.” He smirked again. “Though, that single-mindedness wasn’t so bad in berth.” Prowl bristled, doorwings jerking into an aggressive, steep V-shaped position. “We had some fun times, didn’t we? But then things had to get _complicated_ … Ah, well. I’ll have you again, sooner or later. Just stay where you are and enjoy the show.”

Prowl snarled. “Never. I will give you one warning, only one. Get your Decepticons out of my city, and I will forget what happened. Stay, and you will wish you were never created.”

“Why those threats, love? One could think you are unhappy.” Barricade chuckled. He took hold of something outside the visual field and held it up. It was an unconscious silver and blue youngling. 

Prowl jerked back as if slapped, fear clawing at his spark. “’Cade…” 

The Decepticon shook his head, saddened. “They are all watching, you know? Your trusted General, your creators, and that pitforsaken conjunx of yours. Give me what I want, and that glitched remaining sparkling may live. Refuse… well.” He shot a hole through the unconscious frame and Prowl cut off his vocaliser before he could make any sound. He swayed on his pedes as his legs refused to support his weight, but he managed to remain upright. His servos pressed against his chestplates, right above his spark, and he couldn’t help the cooling liquid falling from his optics. “You have been warned, love. And take this as your second gift.” The transmission ended.

Prowl sobbed, having forgotten where he was. He couldn’t believe it. Barricade had killed his creation. _Barricade had killed his creation_. Silvergrace was gone… He instinctively reached out through the bond, but flinched as he only felt the scorching end of a snapped connection. He had thought it would be faster going to Iacon, to the Autobots, instead of Praxus. But it hadn’t been, and now his youngling, his sweet darling femme, had paid the price.

A whimper drew his attention, and Prowl’s gaze fell upon his (remaining) creation’s curled frame lying on the ground. He pushed through the empty feeling inside him and gathered Smokescreen into his arms. Smokescreen would have felt the bond snap, too. Prowl looked up to meet the Autobot Command’s shocked optics.

“Wha’ th’ frag jus’ happened?” A mech with a black and white painting, stylish red and blue racing strips running down the centre of his chest asked. His optics were hidden behind a visor.

Prowl ex-vented, pushing his feelings aside. “The rest of Praxus has to be warned. Please. And is there somewhere Smokescreen and I can stay? I – I will tell you everything, I promise, but my creation needs a berth.”

Prime nodded. “Of course. If you give us the curtesy of introducing yourself properly this time.” His azure optics had a knowing glint.

Prowl lowered his helm. “Lord Prowl of the Singing Crystals, Heir to the High Lord of Praxus and Prince Smokescreen, my creation.” Prowl said softly. “I am sorry for deceiving you, but I deemed it safer.”

Inferno gaped at him. 

“Last we knew, you were missing.” The last one of the unknown mechs said. He was mainly red coloured, but mixed with grey, unlike Inferno’s black, and a bit shorter than the Security officer.

Prowl’s optics turned icy. “We were able to escape, and I will explain it later. But there are more pressing matters now.” He rose, Smokescreen secure in his arms. “The room, if you please.” He paused for a klik. “And I would be grateful for the possibility to wash myself, it has been quartexes since I last had that luxury.”

Prime scrutinized him for a while, then nodded. “Inferno, take them to room alpha-zero-two. It is unused and big enough for both of them.” He smiled at Prowl. “And it has a private wash rack.”

Prowl dipped his doorwings in thanks, then followed the security officer. Part of him was berating himself for promising to tell the Autobots his story, the other part was desperate to do anything for Praxus and fighting down the immense pain he felt. _Silvergrace…_ He immediately shoved the thought aside. There was no time for tears in war.

His steps faltered, but the crown prince of Praxus caught himself. War. Yes, apparently he was now part of that war that he, and Praxus, had successfully stayed out of for five hundred and twenty-six vorns. _Until Barricade had to destroy everything_ , Prowl thought bitterly. Immense _hate_ threatened to take over, but the Lord was able to gain control over his emotions once more. That traitor was of no significance for him. Catching up, his CPU converted that thought, and any feeling – negative or positive – Prowl might have ever felt for his ex-lover disappeared, hidden in a small corner in the back of his processor.

After what felt to be an eternal walk, the three mechs arrived at their destination. Inferno typed in a code and the door opened, revealing an open and spacious room. 

Smiling, the red bot addressed Prowl. “Well, this is it. You can change your code, if you want to, but anyone from Autobot High Command will be able to override it. There are three separate berthrooms, a bathroom, a living room and a small kitchen with an Energon dispenser. There’s only one type of midgrade, though; if you want something else you’d need to come to the mess hall or cook something yourself. Prime and some of the others of High Command will probably come by this evening, to check on you. Any questions or is there anything you need?” Inferno coughed. “Your Highness?” He added.

Prowl’s doorwings twitched uncomfortably. “No, everything is clear, thank you.”

Inferno gave a clumsy bow and left. The crown prince watched the door close, then turned around and walked to one of the berthrooms. He gently placed Smokescreen down and covered him with a blanket. He watched his (only) creation’s face with a sad frown, then gently kissed the golden chevron and exited the room.

His pedes took him to the wash racks, and he allowed himself a smile when he saw both a tub and a shower. He eyed the tub, but he knew that an oilbath would have to wait for now. The Praxian stepped beneath the showerhead and turned it on, a content sigh leaving his lips as he felt the warm cleanser ridding his frame from the crude dirt.

Looking around, he found a cloth and soap and set to scrub the rest of the grime and paint off him. It felt good to finally be clean again, to finally have the proof of what had been done to him removed. Well, he still had a few scars, but they would soon fade, and Prowl would be able to call himself Heir to the Throne of Praxus again.

Anxiousness clenched his spark when Praxus crossed his processor. Lord Silverstreak, his carrier, and Lord Dash, his sire, wouldn’t be able to do anything. Especially if Skids’ ward was in danger. The ward, a Praxian green-and-blue femme, was the creation of the General’s late sister and her bondmate who died when traveling to the Crystal City. She was his everything, and just like Prowl would do anything for Smokescreen, Skids would do anything for her. Unfortunately.

And if Barricade was holding Skids' ward hostage, it might also explain how Prowl and Smokescreen had been botnapped in the first place without anybody being alarmed...

The Praxian sighed again, this time heavily. He should get out of the shower and drink some Energon. He was quite low on fuel, as the alert on his HUD reminded him. After drying and reapplying paint-nanites, he went to get a cube of mid-grade from his dispenser, and _oh_ , he had never thought simple mid-grade Energon could taste quite this good. He had to stop himself from drinking too much too quickly after having only had low-grade for quite some time, and never as much as he usually needed.

Prowl filled another cube and silently placed it on the nightstand next to Smokescreen’s berth, before settling down on the couch in the living room. He connected with the console next to it, searching the grid for anything that happened the time he had been held captive. His and Smokescreen’s botnapping had stirred quite the outrage, everyone in Praxus demanding to know what had happened.

Also, the Decepticons had commanded that the Crystal City join them, who had refused and held on to their neutrality. But, and the probability lay at ninety-seven-point-three percent, the moment Praxus was destroyed the Crystal City would join the Autobot cause. At least more than two thirds of the city.

Prowl searched for more news, but there was nothing else and he disconnected with a sigh. He had to find something to occupy his processor and battle systems, otherwise he would risk crashing his systems while contemplating Praxus’ fall and his own situation (Silvergrace wasn’t dead, she wasn’t, she wasn’t – she was). Which was not looking very great.

Somehow, miraculously, he managed to do so by simulating past Autobot battles (while simultaneously analysing every bit of information he received), looking for better solutions of handling them. There were quite a few, and the crown prince seriously wondered how the Autobots had managed to survive this long. According to his calculations, there was only a sixty-one-point-seven-eight-six percent probability that they would make it to the next vorn. Not a very comforting number.

A chime startled him out of his simulations, and he stood up to open the door. Optimus Prime was standing there, as well as six other bots. Prowl recognized all but one, and of those he knew only Blaster’s name, who was the cassette host. He stepped aside and let them in, pulling his field so close it would seem as if it was non-existent. 

“May I offer you some Energon?” Prowl asked out of politeness, even though he knew that it was technically theirs and not his.

“A noble who’d serve others?” It was the visored mech who spoke. 

Prowl’s doorwing twitched ever so slightly upwards, annoyed. It was the only outward reaction as he answered, calmly. “Since I am lacking servants, yes, I would serve you. As any good host would.”

Prime gave him a genuine smile. “Thank you for your offer, Your Highness, but since this is technically my home, I will do the serving.” He glanced at the present mechs, silently asking who wanted a cube, before getting one for everyone. “May I introduce my Autobots? They’re Ratchet, my CMO, Jazz, Head of Special Operations, Red Alert, Chief of Security, Hound, Chief of Intelligence, Ironhide, our Weapon and Combat Specialist, and you already know Blaster, Chief of Communication.”

Prowl nodded at them, his processor already memorizing and gathering every piece of information he could get by just looking at them. After sitting down, they all faced Prowl, gazes ranging from expecting to demanding. 

Prowl sighed, lowering his gaze to his Energon. This was it then. Venting deeply, Prowl opened his mouth to speak, but only spit static. He reset his vocalizer and lifted his helm, meeting their gazes confidently. He was Lord Prowl of Praxus, he would not appear weak. “Barricade and I met when we were younglings. He was the creation of lower nobility, my carrier was the Heir of the High Lord of Praxus.” Everyone present earlier nodded, already knowing this part of the story, only Ratchet jerked with surprise. 

Prowl ignored him. “We quickly became best friends and, after thousands of vorn had passed, lovers. But my creators did not approve, Barricade was too low of rank to be considered to become my mate. I kept seeing him despite that, no matter what I was told. Eventually, though, Barricade wanted more than being my lover, he wanted to become my Conjunx. I told him it was not possible, that I was meant to bond someone of a higher standing, no matter my feelings for him.

“It did not end well. He was exiled from Praxus in the end, and probably headed for Kaon. Neither of us knew, though, that by that time he left me sparked.” Prowl grimaced. “We managed to keep that knowledge from the public, only Lord Silverstreak’s court knew of it. Many of them demanded the destruction of the sparkling, but I would not hear of it. However scandalous, it was still _my_ creation, and I wanted it, no matter the social norms. 

“In the end, I had to renounce Barricade as the Sire in order to keep my sparkling and mate a noble within the deca-cycle. I never regretted it, Strider is a very gentle mech. Despite our bond being very weak and me carrying another’s sparkling, he supported me as best as he could and raised my creation, Smokescreen, as his own.

“Seventy-four vorn ago, I was sparked again with Silvergrace. There was not one single spark that could do her any harm. She brought joy to everyone.” Prowl shuttered his optics and vented deeply. _Don’t lose your posture. You’re the Lord Heir, don’t show weaknesses._ “About three and a half quartexes ago, Barricade kidnapped me and Smokescreen. He told me he wants to become my sparkmate. It never occurred to me that Barricade would seek revenge in the form of threatening to level Praxus. And then…” 

Prowl sobbed. It was too painful. Too much to hide. “The youngling he offlined during his call was Silvergrace.” He pressed a servo to his mouth and silenced his vocaliser. His optics shuttered without his doing and he could feel the fine tremors running through his entire frame. No one should have to go through losing their creation, not to mention their _youngling_. 

Somebody swore and strong arms encircled the Praxian’s frame, holding him safely. Prowl broke down against Optimus (no-one else had such a broad frame), unable to be ashamed of how he behaved in front of so many strange mechs, in front of the fragging _Prime_. 

“Carrier?” A small voice asked.

Prowl jerked upright, his optics finding his creation. Smokescreen looked lost and his doorwings were tense with distrust. The older Praxian moved away from the Prime and stood up. “You should rest, Smokescreen.” He said quietly, wiping the tears from his face.

His creation pulled his doorwings closer to himself. “You, too, ‘Tor. He… harmed you more than me.”

Prowl managed to show no outward reaction. “I am fine.” He allowed a small smile to appear on his face. “And we are safe. Don’t worry about me. Recharge.”

Smokescreen shook his helm. “I don’t want to be alone.” He whispered, and Prowl’s spark nearly broke. 

Finally understanding what was bothering his creation, he sat back down and flickered a doorwing in invitation. Smokescreen immediately jumped to his side, curling up against him. Prowl then felt the younger Praxian’s distressed field searching for his and slowly expanded it, once again sending warmth and safety.

“It wasn’t a nightmare.” Smokescreen whispered. “He really killed Silvergrace.”

Prowl put an arm around him, pulling him closer. “He did.”

“How…” The younger Praxian reset his vocaliser. “How could you have liked him?”

“He has not always been like that.” Prowl replied, glancing at their company. Most of them were looking away awkwardly, only Prime and Red Alert were looking at them. “I loved him dearly, once.”

Smokescreen jumped to his feet. “Why? He can’t have changed like that all of a sudden! He abducted us! He _raped_ you! I-In front of me…” He whimpered. “He killed a youngling. Who does that?”

Prowl vented a sigh. Their guests had all jerked when the little detail about him being raped had slipped, but right now, he needed to focus on his creation. “Clearly, he is not the same anymore. But we will talk later, or after you have recharged. We do have guests, after all.”

“I don’t care about–”

“ _Smokescreen!_ ” Prowl’s tone was icy. “Mind your manners. We will talk, _later_. Right now, you need to recharge. Do you wish to stay here or return to your room?” He gentled his voice and brushed reassuringly with his field against Smokescreen’s.

His creation looked a bit ashamed. “I will return to my room. Will you…” He hesitated. “Will you come after you’re done?”

Prowl’s gaze softened. “I will, promised. Off you go.” He brushed Smokescreen’s chevron with his servo and flicked his doorwing with deep affection. Smokescreen smiled sleepily, then jumped off the couch and entered his berthroom. The Crown Prince stared at the door, then turned to face the Autobots. “I guess you have questions?” He asked, politely.

“You were raped?” The medic exploded. “And you didn’t go to a medic?”

“Ratchet.” Prime admonished.

“It’s true.” Ratchet grumbled, and fixed Prowl with a stern gaze. “You will come and see me the latest in two cycles, am I understood?” The Praxian raised an optic ridge and the medic added a growled “My Lord.”

Prowl seized him up, then gave a sharp nod. “As you wish.”

“How can ya be so calm?” The Jazz asked, disbelieve written all over his face. “Tha’s not normal.”

“Jazz!” Prime groaned.

“Not everyone throws a tantrum after something they do not like happened.” Prowl replied coldly and calmly. “This is the second time you have insulted me – General Jazz, was it? Do not try so with other nobles, most will take serious offence.”

“An’ ya don’?”

“I do not care for your opinion, therefore I do not take offence.” He sipped his Energon.

Prime shook his helm. “I apologize for my friend’s behaviour, Your Highness.” Jazz shrugged.

“How did you escape Barricade? Decepticons are not known for making it easy to get away.” Red Alert asked, not bothering to mask his suspicion.

“I am no spy, nor were we brainwashed.” Prowl said. “We were able to escape because I used Barricade’s momentary distraction after sparkmerging with me. I hacked his systems, gathered everything I needed to know, and the next time the guard came to bring Energon, Smokescreen and I escaped, using the Energon knives Smokescreen had. They are untraceable when in subspace.”

“He _spark-raped_ you?” Ratchet shrieked, but Prowl ignored him.

“Untraceable?” Red Alert raised his optic ridges, sceptical. “How do we know you don’t have any of them on you?”

“Because they were forbidden.” Prowl muttered. “M–,” No, Prowl would not utter his name. Not now. “Our leading scientist invented that technology, but Lord Silverstreak deemed it too dangerous. Everything connected to it was destroyed, except for those two knives. I meant to gift them to Smokescreen after his final upgrades. I guess I will have to thank General Skids for disobeying my orders, for once.”

He looked at Prime. “As Crown Prince of Praxus, I formally ask you to aid us, honourable Prime. You will be rewarded afterwards, you have my word.”

“Rewards will not be necessary, my Lord.” Prime replied with a soft smile. “It will be an honour to help you. Ultra Magnus is already on his way to Praxus, he should be there within three joors.”

Prowl offlined his optics briefly, doorwings fluttering with relief. “Thank you.” He whispered. “Now, if you don’t mind, I would join Smokescreen in recharge. It has been a few long orns.”

“Of course.” Prime stood, and everyone with him. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”

Prowl dipped his doorwings. “Thank you.”

“Your Highness.” Prime smiled gently and squeezed his shoulder, then left, and with him his Command staff. The moment the door closed, Prowl leaned against the wall and slid to the ground. Embarrassment about breaking down in front of the Autobots sneaked into his processor, making him groan. _Never show weakness_ , was one of the first rules his creators had taught him. And Prowl never had. Not when Barricade had left him, not when he found out that he was carrying, not when he had to bond with Strider. Not even during his time in Barricade’s clutches. 

And now he had broken that rule. Twice. Prowl buried his face in his servos and tried to calm down. He needed to be in control of himself if he wanted to be of any help for Smokescreen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for today! I hope you enjoyed reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it;)
> 
> Stay home, safe and healthy!


	4. Chapter 3: Broken Bonds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smokescreen snivelled. “It hurts, Carrier. It hurts so much.”
> 
> “I know.” Prowl whispered again, gently stroking a servo down his helm. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *glares at Smokescreen* 
> 
> Fine, say your piece.
> 
> I hope y'all are safe and healthy, guys! Also, you're amazing! Thank you for all the kudos and comments, they never fail to make me smile:)

Prowl went to see Ratchet the next orn in the morning, just as he had promised. The doctor was already waiting for him, arms crossed and a scowl on his faceplates.

“You’re late.” Ratchet said.

Prowl flickered his doorwings at the disrespectful tone the medic used, but didn’t bother to comment on it. One better didn’t annoy their medics. An besides, Ratchet’s bedside manners were nearly as legendary as his skills. “My apologies, but I did not want to leave before Smokescreen woke up.”

Ratchet vented loudly, but the scowl left his face. “Excuse accepted, but don’t let it happen again. I don’t like patients who aren’t on time.”

“Understatement of the vorn.” A passing mech muttered, only to yelp when the medic threw a wrench at him.

The Praxian raised an optic ridge, making a mental note to never enrage Ratchet. He followed the white mech with the red medical decals on his shoulders to a room and obediently sat down on the examination berth. Even though he didn’t really know Ratchet, the medic radiated comfort in his steady and strong, but not overbearing field. It set Prowl at ease.

“I know we don’t know each other, but I would feel reassured about your health if you let me examine you thoroughly, Your Highness.” Ratchet said in a gentle voice. “I would understand it, though, if you just want me to do a few scans.”

Prowl silently contemplated his options. While true that he didn’t know Ratchet, the doctor was the CMO of the Autobot army, a feat that was not easily achieved. And Prowl had heard only the best of this medic even in Praxus, even before the war had started. He was, apparently, a miracle worker. 

“I consent to your examination, medic.” Prowl said quietly. “And I wish for you to look Smokescreen over, as well. Barricade did not treat him very gently. If you have some recommendations for psychologists as well, it would be very much appreciated.”

Ratchet pressed his lips together and nodded. “Of course. First Aid will give you a list when you leave. Now, if you would lie down, please?”

***

The Autobots arrived in a matter of one orn in Praxus, but by then the Decepticon Army was already there. Prowl stood next to Prime and Autobot High Command, as Ultra Magnus gave report. The General was leading the army, but Prowl wished he could be there. Praxus was _his_ city, his to protect. Yet here he was, stuck in Iacon.

His optics swept over the command the tactical division had issued, and his processor immediately fed the information to his battle computer and tactical systems, simulating the battle. His systems marked several flaws in their tactics, flaws that a non-Praxian would not know. Prowl lifted his helm and looked around for the Prime. This problem needed to be remedied immediately.

Prime was talking to Ironhide, Jazz and Elita-One, but immediately quieted when the Lord stepped up to them. They opticked him with distrust, with the exception of their leader. “Not to worry, I have no interest in your secrets.” Prowl said dryly. “I do have an interest in the safety of my city, however, and there is a tactical flaw in your plans.”

“What d’ya know of battles?” Ironhide huffed.

Prowl surveyed him with cold optics. “I have both a battle simulator and tactical systems unlike any other on Cybertron. Before my coronation to Heir of Praxus, I lead the Praxian Enforcers, and while it does certainly not compare to an army, it gave me intimate knowledge about my city. After the coronation I underwent military training in order to become the Supreme Commander of our military. Your plans leave several parts of Praxus weak, and Barricade knows about them.” He turned to Prime. “I know of no one who has a battle simulator or tactical system that come even close to mine. Let me help with tactics.”

“Battle simulator an’ tactical system?” Jazz whistled, and Prowl could have sworn that the Head of Special Operation was leering at him behind his visor. “Ya got lots goin’ on in yer head.”

Prowl levelled an icy look at him, but did not answer. Instead, he slowly let his optics wander up and down the Polyhexian frame, flicked his wings dismissively and deliberately turned to face the Prime once more. In reality, he was anything _but_ unaffected by the Autobot’s Third in Command. Jazz had an exotic (to a Praxian) frame, with his stubby sensor horns and the visor covering half of his face, and he was _beautiful_. But he wasn’t the first mech Prowl had found attractive since his bonding (he pushed away the thought of a roguish smirk, black and purple paint and crimson optics), and he would never be disloyal to his mate.

Optimus nodded. “Alright. Jazz, take Lord Prowl to tactics.”

The Polyhexian grinned. “As ya wish, OP.” He motioned for the Praxian to follow him, then gave the Prime a lazy salute and left the room. Prowl silently started to count the kliks in his head. “So, whaddya gonna do t’ save yer city?”

“Tactics.” Prowl replied.

“Talkative much, eh? Dontcha worry, I don’ bite.” Jazz tilted his helm. “Not hard, at least.” Prowl remained silent. “Oh, c’mon! Talk t’ me. Otherwise this’ll be one boooorinn’ walk.”

“We do not have anything to talk about.” The Crown Prince said.

Jazz grumbled. “Ya’re cold, y’know?”

“So I have been told.” Prowl murmured. “Repeatedly.”

“Oh.” Why did Prowl know that Jazz was staring at him curiously? “Do tell.” Prowl shot a look at the Polyhexian. “Wha’? ‘M curious. An’ I wanna talk ‘bout somethin’.”

“Maybe someorn.” Prowl allowed, mostly to get Jazz off his back.

“Really? An’ when would tha’ be? When ya’re back in good ol’ Praxus?” Jazz smirked. “I don’ think so.” He threw an arm around the Praxian’s shoulders, ignoring how Prowl stiffened. “C’mon, tell me.”

Prowl glared at the offending appendage until the Autobot took it back. “Do not touch me again.” Jazz’s engine whined longingly. They stopped, Prowl staring at him in shock.

The saboteur shrugged. “Wha’? ‘M not blind.” Now his engine was revving suggestively. 

“You are neither high born, nor my mate, therefore I advise you to refrain from touching me and any inappropriate behaviour.” Prowl suggested pointedly.

“High born? Tha’ a trait yer lovers gotta have?”

“I do not have lovers.” Prowl replied and started to move again. “Infidelity is not a trait that Strider or I approve of.”

Jazz hurried to catch up with him. “Honourable mech, eh?”

“Quite so.” Prowl flickered his doorwings. “How much longer? Every second we waste, more of my subjects die.”

A sigh. “Jus’ ‘round th’ corner.” There was a flicker of an emotion that Prowl could no decipher in that ever so joyful field, but it was gone in a nano-klik. “I’ll jus’ tell Highstep who ya’re, an’ tha’ll be it.”

Prowl looked at him for a few steps. “Thank you.” He finally said.

Jazz grinned. “My pleasure, m’Lord.”

***

Smokescreen walked through the halls as if they belonged to him, doorwings bouncing with every step. He might not be as proficient as his carrier in displaying an emotionless mask, but a) Smokescreen didn’t want to do that anyways, and b) this wasn’t Praxus. It wasn’t expected of him to be the perfect Prince, as disgraced he may be. 

Disgraced not because of anything Smokescreen had done, but what his _Carrier_ had done. Gotten himself sparked up by low nobility, a mech who wasn’t even his bondmate. The only thing worse would have been if Prowl had carried a commoner’s sparkling. Wait, scratch that. A _Kaonite_ commoner’s bitlet. Yes, that would have been absolutely horrifying for the Praxian High Nobility. 

_The Lord Heir had gotten himself sparked by a ragtag out of Kaon’s Pits._

Yeah, Smokescreen could imagine that no amount of pleading on Prowl’s side would have led to him being able to keep his creation. In a way, Smokescreen was glad that Barricade was his Sire. Well, the one who sparked Prowl up, because his _Sire_ was Strider.

Smokescreen frowned at the thought of his Carrier’s bonded. He knew Prowl and Strider didn’t love each other. They had done the deed and created an heir, but apart from that, they rarely touched each other, not even the smallest sign of appreciation. And neither cared overly about it, from what Smokescreen had observed.

Of course he knew their stories. His Carrier’s foolishness with the disgraced noble turned Decepticon and Strider’s sparkbreaking loss. His Sire had agreed to bond to Prowl because he had known that he would never bond to his true love. Strider’s intended had been a delicate femme from the Crystal City, and apparently their sparks had resonated (which was complete slag, because resonating sparks were a fairy-tale). She had been killed on her way to Praxus, ambushed by early Decepticon riots, a few decavorns before the war. 

Which was how Strider ended up without a mate, and since he had lost his spark with her, he was free to choose the best offer. And Prowl, desperate for a decent mech to bond to who wouldn’t mind him being already sparked, hadn’t even hesitated when Strider had made the proposal. At least, that’s how both of them had told him their engagement had happened.

Smokescreen thoughts turned to Silvergrace, and his spark clenched with anguish. Barricade had killed her, simply because she was Strider’s creation. Smokescreen bit back a sob. His sweet little sister. She had been both joy and sorrow for Prowl. Joy, because the monochrome Praxian loved both of his creations dearly, Smokescreen knew that. Sorrow, because he had more than once gotten into a fight with his own creators over her. Well her and Smokescreen.

It had been an accident, but Smokescreen had witnessed one of the fights. Lord Silverstreak’s angry growls, Prowl’s icy and controlled replies and Lord Dash’s soft pleas. The fights were often about Smokescreen’s and Silvergrace’s standings. Prowl’s creators wanted to name Silvergrace their heir. Once Smokescreen had reached his final upgrades, he was to abide and maybe act as ambassador to some city or the High Lords’ delegate. Silvergrace would then be Lady Heir.

Prowl had flat out refused.

Smokescreen sighed and rubbed his chevron. It had stung, that orn, when he had heard his grandcreators practically disown him, that they didn’t deem him fit, only because he wasn’t Strider’s biological creation. Not that anyone on Cybertron except Prowl, his creators, Strider, Barricade, some nobles sworn to silence and Smokescreen had known at that point of time.

Anyways, Smokescreen had long since forgiven his grandcreators, and after some thinking, even agreed to their demands (not that he had told them or his Carrier). He didn’t want to live as strict as his Carrier, didn’t want to have to be as careful about his behaviour or whom he berthed. Smokescreen wanted to live like his Uncle Side Burn. Travelling to every corner on Cybertron and even other planets, fragging exotic mechs and femmes (Side Burn had told him about his conquests, and Smokescreen was glad he had someone to talk to about interfacing. Asking his Carrier or Sire would have been awkward). Yes, that was a life Smokescreen could live with.

And thinking about interfacing… Smokescreen winced as an unbidden image came to his forefront and caught his attention. No creation should know how their creators looked and sounded like when ‘facing, but Smokescreen knew. He was also able to recall his Carrier’s pained screams when Barricade had tortured or forcefully taken him, and how he had trembled after Barricade was gone and Smokescreen had hugged him close. 

Smokescreen gagged and rushed to the nearest washracks, purging his tanks all over the floor. Well, scrap. He could feel his frame shaking, and it took two tries before he was able to turn on the shower. Smokescreen slid down the wall and sat down, knees hugged close to his chest. While horrific for him, it must have been worse for his Carrier. No, the truly horrendous thing about their capture for Smokescreen had been the gun to his helm. He was allowed to shutter his optics, to cut off audial feed, but the sensation of an unlocked gun pressed against the side of his head…

Whatever energon had remained in his tanks, Smokescreen got rid of it as he purged again. He gagged a bit more, but nothing else came out. The young Praxian leaned back against the walls and shuttered his optics. He couldn’t tell his Carrier. Prowl had more than enough on his processor, he shouldn’t have to worry about Smokescreen as well. He was a big mech now, he could take care of himself. Had everything gone according to plan, Smokescreen should already have received his final upgrades.

“Ugh, you don’t look well.”

Smokescreen shot to his pedes, servos raised in a defence position and knife clutched tightly. His Carrier had taught him Circuit-Su, Metallikato and Diffusion (his carrier preferred the last, Smokescreen liked Metallikato the most), and it was easy to fall into the familiar defensive position of his favourite martial art. 

Two mechlings were standing at the entrance of the washracks, servos raised in a pacifying gesture. One of them was red with black with stubby horns on the side of his helm and the other one was a very handsome golden and black mech with lateral helm fans. They were a few vorns younger than Smokescreen, if he guessed correctly (and Smokescreen would have bet his little sister that he was right).

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.” The red one spoke, his voice matching the one from before. “I’m Sideswipe, by the way.”

Smokescreen subspaced the knife, feeling embarrassed. He was at Autobot HQ, what bad could possibly happen? Quickly supressing the feeling, Smokescreen straightened and gave a bright smile. “I’m Smokescreen.”

“Cool.” Sideswipe said. “And this is Sunstreaker, by the way. We’re _the_ Twins.” 

“Oh?” The Praxian scrutinised them. “Spark-split?” 

“Yeah.” Sunstreaker answered, voice gruff. “You’re Praxian, right? With those wings? Aren’t you supposed to be neutral?” 

Smokescreen pressed his lips together and looked away. “Yeah, supposed to.” He could feel how rigid his sensor panels had gone and put another smile onto his face. “That I’m here is only temporary. As soon as those fragging Decepticons are out of our city, Carrier and I are going home.”

“Ah.” Sideswipe came closer and shut off the cleanser. “Why’d you purge?”

“Bad memories.” Smokescreen replied and crossed his arms, doorwings fanning out in a demand of respect. “Do you usually enter occupied washracks?” 

“No, but we heard you purging and thought you might need help.” Sunstreaker replied.

The Praxian blinked. “Really?”

“No.” Sideswipe said with a broad grin. “We thought you were some Autobot officer and wanted to get some blackmail material. But it was just you, so no gain there.”

“Did you take any pictures?” Smokescreen asked.

“Nah, no sense in there. You’re not important enough.” The red mech replied with a long-suffering sigh.

Smokescreen smirked and leaned close to him, vent brushing against the mechling’s neck cables. “Actually, I’m Prince Smokescreen of the Singing Crystals, and my Carrier is Heir to the High Lords of Praxus. Would have been worth something.” He grinned as Sideswipe’s engine stalled and straightened. “Nice meeting you.” Then he turned around and swaggered out of the washrack, hips swaying.

“Wait!” Sideswipe called, and Smokescreen grinned. _Bingo._ He waited until the Twins had caught up to him, a patient façade on display. “Have you ever fragged two mechs at once?”

“Can’t say I have.” Smokescreen replied honestly, optic ridges raising at the disregard of any subtlety. “My uncle did, though.”

“Heh. Your uncle knows how to do it. We’ve never fragged royalty. Wanna give it a try?”

Smokescreen looked at them. They were quite handsome, and judging from the accent and their armour, they were Kaonites. He imagined the reaction his grandcreators would have if they ever found out and smirked. “I’d love to.”

***

Prowl frowned at the screen in front of him. The tactician in charge had suggested that in order to save the Praxian Palace, they should reinforce Ultra Magnus’ garrison, which would leave the central energy centre open for attack. While Prowl appreciated the sentiment, there was no place for sentiment in war. If they wanted to save Praxus, they would need to sacrifice the Palace and protect the central energy centre. 

The Praxian ran the simulation through his battle computer, then adjusted the orders for the frontliners. He plugged into his station to receive the data faster, immediately feeding it to his battle computer and tac-net, while simultaneously sending new orders. His attention was caught by a small group of Autobots cut off from the rest of the army and his left optic twitched with annoyance. He had ordered their retreat not half a joor ago, while they still had had cover from their comrades. Now there was no help in sight, and they needed to be rescued. Prowl contemplated sending a few mechs after them, then dismissed the idea as a waste of resources, since it would cost more lives to safe then than letting them be killed. Instead, Prowl focused on sending reinforcement to help Ultra Magnus to defend more vital structures housing civilians.

“Who the pits is changing my orders?” The tactician in charge exclaimed, enraged.

Prowl’s engine growled, annoyed to have to take his attention from saving his city to deal with this. He unplugged, but kept transferring new information for his battle computer and running simulations, while turning to the tactician in charge. “I am.” He said calmly.

“Who the _frag_ do you think you are?” The mech exploded. “You just sacrificed nine good mechs!”

“To safe twenty others.” Prowl replied calmly. “And thirty-seven civilians. Besides, if _you_ had not changed _my_ orders, they would never ended up helplessly surrounded by Decepticons. If you lead all your battles like this, I am unsurprised as to why the Autobots are doing so badly.” He tilted his helm as he received new data, quickly integrating it in his simulation and changing the orders once more, letting the Decepticons destroy the Helix Gardens in order to save the Crystal Library, which contained not only every single detail of Praxian history, but also a refuge for civilians.

The tactician in charge gaped as he received the new changes, then glared at Prowl. “That’s enough. I don’t want you here anymore. I’m trying to lead a battle, but you’re changing my every move!”

“And you are losing. With the way you are leading, the chances that this battle will end with a Decepticon victory is eighty-four-point-zero-seven percent. I do not intend to let them win while destroying everything there is to Praxus.” Prowl pulled his field in tight, trying to remain calm. “I will defend my city, no matter what.”

“Oh, really?” The mech snarled. “Security, remove this mech immediately.”

Prowl pressed his lips together, then opened a line to Prime. 

::Prime here.::

::Honourable Prime, I am sorry to take this up with you, but your Head Tactician is currently dooming my city. I request to take command while there is still a chance to safe Praxus. There should be a seventy-six-point-nine-three percent chance to do so.::

A pause. ::Alright, Your Highness. Take command.::

Prowl immediately went to the main control table, plugging in and re-entering his battle mode, completely blind to his surroundings. Time lost meaning while he was like this, the guiding servo behind the forces on the front. The number of casualties decreased and the battle came to a stalemate, neither side gaining or losing any ground. It came as a surprise when a touch startled him out of his trance-like state, pulling him back to his surroundings.

The Praxian looked up into Prime’s gentle blue optics. “That’s enough for this cycle. Go recharge and get some Energon, you can continue afterwards.”

“I am needed here, my Prime.” Prowl protested. “With some Energon I should be able to continue eleven more joors.”

“That was an order, Lord Prowl. I will expect you in six joors in the Command Room.”

Prowl clenched his servos, then dropped his wings marginally as a sign of submission. He wasn’t used to taking orders. Even when he had worked as police officer and in the Praxian military, it had always been him giving the orders, being in command of the Praxian Defence (at least after his training). “I hope that Praxus is still standing when I return.” He said icily, then left without another word, earning outraged gasps and exclamations throughout the Autobots.

Smokescreen wasn’t in his room when Prowl arrived, but it didn’t surprise the noble. His creation was probably with the Twins, two Kaonite mechlings he had met the previous orn. Prowl drained a cube, then fell into recharge, setting an internal alarm to wake him in five joors, leaving just enough time to get cleaned and drink another cube before having to report to the Command Room.

***

“…I’m telling you, this mech’s a psychopath!” Tryst growled and took another sip of his high-grade. “A total freak, if you ask me.”

Toaster frowned at Rewind, who was doodling into a datapad while glancing shyly at Chromedome, before turning to his best friend. “Blaster told me he turned the battle in our favour.”

“Well, he did.” Tryst grumbled reluctantly. “But that Praxian glitch sacrificed at least nine bots for that! _Willingly_ and without _remorse_.”

Those two words caught Chromedome’s attention, and the mnemosurgeon turned to the tactician. “Who did you say the mech was?”

“That’s it, I don’t know! He just came barging in with Prime’s blessing, arrogant as any Enforcer, and took over the defence of Praxus without even introducing himself!”

“You said he was Praxian? Black and white painting? Red chevron? Enforcer decals on his doorwings?” Chromedome inquired tightly.

Tryst stared at him. “Uh, yeah? You know him?”

The mnemosurgeon fumbled with his wrist, then projected an image. “That him?”

“Yeah! That’s him! Honestly, Chrome, who is he?”

Chromedome groaned and shut off the projection. “For frag’s sake.” He retracted his mask and took a big gulp of his own high-grade. “That, dear Tryst, is no one else, but Lord Prowl of Praxus.”

Tryst choked on his Energon. Bluster hit his back until he stopped couching, and the tactician turned disbelieving dark green optics to the yellow and orange mech. “’Scuse me? There must be something wrong with my audials, because I think you just said ‘ _Lord Prowl of Praxus_ ’? The kidnapped Heir?”

“There’s nothing wrong with your audial receptors.” Chromedome replied. “That’s Prowl, all right. I used to work with him, back when I was still in mechaforensics.” He chuckled. “The others in the precinct used to call me the ‘unlucky lucky one’, because I was partnered with the prince who was known for his icy aloofness. Prowl’s very exact and loves details, and his personality isn’t the easiest.” He shook his helm. “There’s no better tactician than him though, to be honest, but he isn’t above sacrificing mechs for what he perceives as the ‘greater good’.”

“Uh-oh.” Bluster said, having noticed the bitter subglyphes the mnemosurgeon had used. “Something happened.”

Chromedome lowered his gaze to his cube. “I had a best friend, Cable. He was Praxian and in Spec Ops. Prowl coordinated most of their missions, being the best tactician the Enforcers had. One of the mission went bad, and well, Cable was on that one. Prowl told him to leave his teammates behind, but who does that? Cable died that orn, Prowl and I fought, I left Praxus and became a mnemosurgeon.” He shrugged. “I’ve kind of forgiven Prowl, but on the other servo I’m still angry he got them all killed.”

Toaster whistled. “Mech, that sucks.”

“At least Prowl won’t stay.” Rewind said. The other four mechs turned their optics to him, and the cassette shrugged. “I was there with Blaster last night, when Prowl explained himself. He didn’t tell us who he really was when he first arrived, and Prime wanted an explanation for why he had used a wrong designation. Sparkbreaking story, to be honest, but it was obvious that he would return to Praxus once he and his creation, Smokescreen, were better.”

“He gave you a wrong name?” Chromedome asked.

Rewind nodded. “And to tell the truth, he didn’t look like in the holo-vids or pictures when he arrived. Pretty roughed up.”

“Do tell.” Tryst leaned forward, a gleam in his optics.

“I’m sorry.” Rewind shook his helm. “I can’t. Everyone present had to swear not to tell anything.”

“Oh mech.” 

Bluster and Toaster immediately started a conversation with Tryst to distract him, and Rewind turned to Chromedome, gently placing a servo over the mnemosurgeon’s. “Are you alright?”

The taller mech looked up, then away. “I’m fine.” He didn’t pull away his servo.

***

Prowl arrived exactly six joors after his talk with Prime, flickering his doorwings in greeting, before plugging in. He quickly processed everything that had happened, battle simulator already providing a steady stream of information and new orders. Just before he sank into his battle-trance again, a small detail caught his attention, and Prowl jerked back, fury filling his gaze. He turned to Autobot High Command, engine revving angrily.

“Who decided to protect the Palace? I ordered to sacrifice it!”

“Th’ tactician in command after ya left.” Jazz replied.

Prowl snarled. “Should I take another break, he is not allowed to take over.” He projected his battle simulator through the projector on the table, highlighting several points on the map. “Because his actions cut off _every single escape route for the civilians!_ ” Prowl finally gave in and sank into his battle-trance, forgetting that he was still projecting and not noticing that the High Command stopped what they were doing, watching as he processed information and send new orders in a matter of nano-kliks, regaining two routes after a few joors.

The battle dragged on for two more orns before the fate of Praxus was decided.

***

It was without any warning that Prowl suddenly collapsed during the meeting. There had been nothing to warn the ‘bots around him that something was about to happen, he simply fell to the ground as if he had offlined. “Prowl!” several voices cried out, concern obvious even though the noble was not a very well-liked mech. The Praxian didn’t react, just continued lying on the ground, both servos clutching at his chestplates.

“Get him to Ratchet.” Optimus commanded. He had already turned off the holograms and commed the medic. Ironhide gently picked Prowl up, and the winged mech immediately curled against the red mech. They ran towards med bay, where Ratchet was already waiting for them.

“Put him on the berth.” Ratchet ordered. Ironhide did as commanded, and Prowl whimpered softly, curling into a tight ball. The Autobots exchanged a concerned glace. Except for the first day, Prowl had never lost composure, always radiating icy perfection.

“Prime.” Blaster suddenly spoke up. He waited until he had Optimus’ attention, then sent him some planetary surveillance footage. Optimus accepted the data and watched it, horror seizing his spark. His optics fell to where the Praxian was lying, and deep sorrow and sympathy filled him.

Ratchet reset his vocaliser, having finished checking Prowl over. “His systems crashed.” He commented and touched a servo to where the spark should be. “He is suffering from broken bonds. Optimus, he’s survived the death of his _bondmate_.” Ratchet added quietly. “What the Pit happened?”

“We just received notice that the Decepticons publicly executed the High Lords and Prowl’s bonded, probably knowing who the tactician behind our forces is.” The Chief Communication Officer said. “And without Prowl, we’re already losing ground.”

***

Optimus – and Ironhide, by default – came to the med bay the next morning after Ratchet told them the Praxian would wake up any moment now. He deserved to know what had happened. Ratchet grumbled at them that they were crowding the room and that there where way too many ‘bots around, when Prowl groaned softly and his optics blinked online. He tried to sit up, but Ratchet firmly pushed him back down. “Easy, there. You just suffered a severe trauma, Your Highness.”

“Severe…” Prowl’s gaze became unfocused. “I am missing three bonds. What happened?”

Optimus shared a look with the medic, then turned to the noble. “The battle of Praxus is over. The Decepticons left, but there is nothing… Praxus has been completely destroyed during their drawback, due to Seekers bombing the city.”

“Praxus is gone.” Prowl murmured, then shot up, panic very obvious on his faceplates. “No. No. I have been…” He flinched. “Strider. I cannot feel my bonded. _I cannot feel my sparkmate._ ” He looked around with a wild look in his optics, and stricken silence met his words. “Where… Smokescreen. I need Smokescreen.” Prowl whispered to no one. “I need Smokescreen. I need him, now. Please.”

A gentle servo touched his shoulder. “Of course. Where is he?”

“My quarters.” Prowl replied, his processor immediately identifying the voice as friendly.

Someone – Smokescreen? – reached out through one of the remaining bonds and Prowl immediately sent love, comfort and compassion through the bond, while taking the pain (it was only logical to help his creation). 

“Prowl. Can you hear me?”

Prowl’s attention snapped back to his surroundings and he was looking into the concerned optics of Optimus Prime.

“I can.” He muttered. Somebody pushed an Energon cube into his servo and he took a sip. “Why…” He reset his vocaliser. “Why am I not dead?” He asked. “My conjunx died, I should have followed him.”

“Your bond was weak.” Ratchet said gently, and the Praxian flinched. “And you’re a strong mech. There have been cases of a conjunx surviving a severed bond.”

Prowl’s doorwings shivered with pain, but he lowered his helm, accepting the truth. There had only been a thirteen percent chance of him dying with Strider. It still felt as if someone had ripped out his spark. 

Optimus extended his comforting field. “Can you tell me what exactly happened? Megatron would not have attacked a neutral city without a very good reason, and up to now I cannot find one.” He asked. 

Prowl shuttered his optics. “I told you Barricade desires to be my conjunx. This, annihilating Praxus, killing Silvergrace – those are part of his side of the Conjunx Ritus.”

Someone cursed colourfully, but Prowl didn’t notice as he found himself in Optimus’ arms again. He Prime was radiating comfort and solace, and Prowl wished he could just drown himself in the big mech’s field and never surface again. A nudge distracted him suddenly, and Prowl blinked as he realized that it came from a bond he had not noticed before. Hope bloomed in his spark and he reached out before he was consciously aware of what he was doing. :: _Side Burn?_ :: He tentatively opened a long range comm channel to his brother.

For a few terrifying kliks there was nothing but static, then – :: _Prowl?_ ::

Prowl nearly sobbed in relief. :: _Thank Primus, you’re alive. Please, come to Iacon as soon as possible, brother, I am begging you._ ::

:: _I will. Promised. Need you._ ::

:: _Who…_ :: Prowl buried his helm in Optimus’ neck. :: _Who else survived?_ ::

A klik, then, :: _Skids and Greenspark. The three of us were able to escape while our creators provided a distraction. There are a few Praxian survivors we found, as well as the ambassadors we sent to Crystal City. However, you would know the number of survivors better, I imagine. I’ll be in Iacon in an orn, curtesy of Ultra Magnus. You’re at the Prime Palace?_ ::

:: _Yes._ ::

:: _Don’t go anywhere, big brother. I’ll meet you there._ :: 

:: _Be safe._ ::

Prowl inhaled deeply, then gathered himself and straightened. “My brother Side Burn will arrive tomorrow, and with him his entourage. Expect them to join forces with the Autobots.”

Optimus regarded him with calm optics. “Is it wise? So soon after the destruction of Praxus?” He asked.

“They are angry, Prime, and are thirsting for revenge. There will be nothing to stop them, if you do not accept them. There are few enough of us left for them to risk their lives foolishly.”

Deep blue optics scrutinised him. “Alright”, The Prime said softly, “I trust your judgement.” 

The door suddenly opened, revealing Smokescreen. The mechling cried out and threw himself at his carrier, whimpering and sobbing loudly. Prowl caught him and went down to his knees, emotions overwhelming him. He rocked forwards and backwards, holding Smokescreen tightly, and silently cried with him.

“Grandcreators…” Smokescreen finally whimpered. “I c-can’t feel them a-anymore!”

“I know.” Prowl whispered.

Smokescreen snivelled. “It hurts, Carrier. It hurts so much.”

“I know.” Prowl whispered again, gently stroking a servo down his helm. “I know.” It hurt him to see his creation in so much pain, to see the usually proud doorwings dangling so lowly. He gathered Smokescreen closer to him and spread his wings, trying to shield him from prying eyes. 

Smokescreen suddenly peaked up. “Uncle Burn’s alive?” He asked slurred. 

“Yes, sweetspark.” Prowl kissed the centre of his chevron, then changed his grip and stood up, carrying his sparkling. “Rest now, I will watch over you.” Smokescreen snuggled closer, then offlined his optics and fell into an exhausted recharge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Take care of yourselves!


	5. Chapter 4: Praxus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl visits Praxus in the aftermath of its destruction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seem to enjoy posting my chapters when I should be asleep... oh, well. 
> 
> Enjoy! ;)

Prowl was standing next to Optimus Prime, Ironhide, Red Alert and Jazz when Side Burn and fourteen other Praxians arrived. Five of them were younglings, who Prowl recognized as the creations of some members of his creators’ court; one of them was Greenspark, Skids’s ward.

Leading the mechs was Side Burn, his usual mischievous red optics serious and tired, though his posture was still proud. His alternating light and dark blue plating with white and red accents was scratched, and he had splashes of Energon all over him, but all in all, he didn’t look too damaged. The moment he saw Prowl, he threw himself at his brother, completely disregarding proper behaviour. The older Praxian could feel the desperation and the need for closeness, which is why he let it slide, just this once. As he had done with Smokescreen, he engulfed Side Burn with his calm and safety emitting field.

After a small while Prowl stepped back, scrutinising his brother. His dark blue and white painting was littered with burn marks and small cuts, Energon oozing out of several wounds. “I am glad you are safe.” He finally said.

“Me, too. I – all of us – owe our lives to our creators. They distracted Barricade and the other Decepticons with him. And now… They’re gone, Prowl.”

Prowl gently wiped the cooling liquids from Side Burn’s face. “I know.” His doorwings were saying everything he couldn’t voice, and Side Burn bowed his own sensor panels in thanks. “May I introduce you to Optimus Prime?”

The younger Praxian gave a court bow. “It is my honour, Prime.” 

“The honour is mine.” Prime replied.

“Uncle Burn!” A voice exclaimed, and the next moment a blur of blue and red colours jumped at Side Burn, who staggered a few steps back. 

“Smokey.” He laughed and hugged his nephew close. “Thank Primus you’re alright. We were all so worried.” 

Smokescreen grinned. “I’ve got to tell you everything. ‘Tor was amazing! We–”

“Maybe you should have that conversation later.” Prowl interrupted them. “This is neither the time, nor the right place for it.”

“Indeed not.” A deep voice cut in, and Prowl turned his optics towards a familiar blue frame. Skids stepped forward, then fell to his knees before the Crown Prince, bowing his helm lowly. “I’m sorry. I betrayed you and failed to protect you when you needed me. I can’t – ” His voice broke into static, and he reset his vocaliser. “I’m sorry.” 

Prowl pressed his lips together and looked away. He had thought in depth about what he would do to Skids once he saw him again. Anger simmered under his plating, and he very much wanted to hurt the mech he had trusted with his and his family’s safety. The mech who was responsible for what he had had to endure for three quartexes. 

Icy blue optics fell on Greenspark, then on the other Praxians, all of them wounded and exhausted. He exvented softly and shook his helm. “You are not forgiven.” Prowl said softly. “But I understand why you acted as you did. If anyone had taken Smokescreen hostage, I would have acted the same way.” His lips twisted downwards. He had, in that cell, with the threat of a blaster to his creation’s helm. “And we all have suffered enough. You have never failed us before, and I doubt you will again. Rise, old friend.” He met Skids’ disbelieving gaze with a gentle one. “And there is no need for titles anymore. Praxus is gone, as is our culture.”

Skids accepted the sword and rose, but his doorwings remained in their submissive posture. “Praxus is not simply a city, your Highness, Praxus is her people. And as long as there are Praxians, you will remain our Lord.” He gave a deep bow, and the other Praxians followed his example, even Side Burn and Smokescreen joined in.

Prowl lowered his helm. “You honour me.” He said softly. 

“It is nothing less than what you deserve.” Side Burn replied gently. Then he clapped his servos. “I’m starving! It there some Energon around?”

“There is.” Jazz said easily. “I’m Jazz, TIC o’ th’ Autobots. Jus’ follow me.” He winked at Prowl, which earned him a few growls from the adult mechs, then led the exhausted Praxians to the rec room.

The moment they were gone, Prowl turned to Optimus Prime. “I have heard you will go to Praxus to look for survivors.” He squared his doorwings. “I will go with you.”

“Are you sure that is a wise decision?” Prime asked, not discouraging, just curious.

“Yes. I need to see the destruction for myself, to be there for any survivor.” Prowl replied calmly.

Prime tilted his helm ever so slightly, then nodded. “Alright. We will leave in four joors, be here by that time.”

Prowl flickered his doorwings in thanks, then left to prepare what he needed for this trip.

***

“So, tell me, m’Lord, wha’ was all tha’ dramatic stuff they were doin’? Y’know, the thin’ with th’ beggin’ fer forgiveness an’ all?” Jazz asked Side Burn. The two of them were sitting at a table, while the other Praxians were keeping to themselves. Smokescreen was chatting animatedly with the young green and blue femme, Greenspark or so.

Prowl’s younger brother grimaced and downed another cube of high-grade. “Oh, that. Uhm, it was basically Skids taking blame for what had happened with Barricade, taking full responsibility. He offered his Lord to put him through any punishment he sees fit, even taking his subject’s life.”

Jazz choked on his Energon. “Wha’?!”

“It’s an old tradition, going back to the founding days of the House of the Singing Crystals. I don’t know if Prowl told you, but we were warriors once. Our family has always ruled Praxus; we earned the right through combat. Killed all our rivals, and that was it. My House expected perfection, nothing less.” Side Burn’s doorwings flickered. “Every General or commanding officer who made a mistake, though… they were given a choice: either be disgraced and publicly exiled and maybe executed, or they could offer their Lords and Ladies their lives. Go with honour.” The Praxian shook his head. “No Lord has ever spared a life. What Prowl did was extraordinary, something that shows who he really is.”

“Hmm.” Jazz hummed. “I got a vibe he’s special.”

Side Burn gave him an amused look. “He is. Don’t think I haven’t seen you drooling over him.”

“Ya mind?” The saboteur asked, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

The Praxian laughed. “It’s not about whether I mind or not. Prowl’s a big mech, and he’s the Lord of Praxus. In your stead, I would worry about him more than anything else. And I wouldn’t get my hopes up if I were you, he’s never shown interest in anyone who wasn’t a noble or Praxian. Well, except for once, but that was a very long time ago. Besides, he’s just lost his sparkmate, creation and city, he won’t be in the mood for it. Also, he doesn’t do flings.” His blazing red optics raked over Jazz’s frame. “But I wouldn’t mind. If you ever want to swap paint, comm me. Just paint yourself in red.” He pinged him his comm line and stood up. “Nice talking, General, but I need to see to my nephew.” 

Jazz raised his cube at him, staring at his retreating form, contemplating. Side Burn’s elegant alternating light and dark blue plating with white colour accentuating the right places was very optic catching, as well as those proud doorwings. He had red accents all over his frame and shared Prowl’s red chevron, and his red optics were a nice contrast to his paintjob.

And yet…

_He wasn’t Prowl._

Jazz stared at his Energon in disbelief. There he was, having been offered a chance to frag a handsome mech, but he was probably going to decline, only because he wasn’t someone else?! What was happening to him? Jazz never declined an offer to ‘face! 

He needed to get over Prowl ASAP.

***

He couldn’t believe his optics. Prowl stared at the still burning ruins that used to be his proud city. Black clouds of smoke were hanging lowly, and before the bombing they would have covered the uppermost third of the smallest towers, but now they covered nothing. Through stubbornness alone Prowl kept himself from collapsing, instead he turned to the Prime standing next to him.

“Are searching troops already in the city?” He asked.

Prime nodded. “The first went a few joors after the bombing stopped. But they were unable to go far; many buildings are unstable and there are still some fires.”

Prowl nodded. “I will go, too.”

“My Lord–”

“Prowl.” Prowl interrupted him. “Equality is something you Autobots preach, is it not? Since I am to be an Autobot, you might as well address me as everyone will in the near future. And I know you have objections, Prime, but this is my city, and I am their Lord still. Do not take this from me.”

Blue optics searched his, and Prowl looked back, unfazed. Stares could not hurt him, not after everything that had happened to him. Finally, Optimus Prime nodded and Prowl whirled around, walking towards the remains of Praxus.

It took every ounce of his will to keep his stoic façade, to not break down in front of the Autobots and weep for his subjects. For joors he searched ruin after ruin, but the only things he found were grey frames and pieces of armour. And every piece broke his spark a little bit more.

Then, suddenly, his doorwings picked up a faint vibration. Prowl’s head shot up and he whirled around. He was standing in front of what used to be The Thirteen’s Shrine, a small garden with crystals the Lord or Lady Heir planted and cared for. It had practically been Prowl’s glorified garden. Emotionless optics swept over the fine powder covering the ruins, powder that used to be crystals he had once cared for. Prowl sighed and quashed down his emotions, doorwings fanning out behind him. And true enough, he caught that faint vibration of a spark again.

The Lord slowly entered the shrine, using every available sensor to detect where that signal had come from. He turned on his heels to his left. The fountain’s socle was still standing, miraculously, and the spark signature definitely came from the fountain. After a closer look, Prowl found that the first basin had collapsed, its crystal forming a safe hollow that might fit a sparkling. Prowl hurried over there and knelt down, clawing desperately at the crystal to get to whoever was hiding there.

Finally, the crystals came off, revealing a small unconscious purple and orange youngling, not older than a hundred and seventy vorn. Prowl carefully lifted the femme out of the hollow, cradling her close to his chest. With a last look around, blue optics hardened, and the Lord left the shrine.

He nearly ran back to the Autobots had encamped, and as soon as he was in hearing range, he called for Ratchet. The medic grumbled about annoying ‘Bots ordering him around, but immediately reached for the unconscious youngling to treat her. Prowl remained by the young Praxian’s side, even when Ratchet and Prime tried to convince him to get some rest. But he couldn’t leave her, he had to make sure she was alright.

Finally, after several joors, golden optics flickered online. Prowl was immediately at her side, EMF drawn so tightly to his frame that it was practically non-existent. “Hello, little one.” He said quietly. “Who are you?”

The femme looked around, her own field filled with fear and numbness. “I’m Road Rage.” She whispered, doorwings repeating every word she said. “Where… where are Carrier and Sire?”

“I do not know.” Prowl said quietly. “Can you feel their bonds?”

Road Rage’s gaze became unfocused, then she started to sob, engine whining heartbreakingly. Prowl stared at the small femme, then hesitantly drew her in for a hug, expanding his field filled with comfort. It smoothed the youngling’s field, which felt tangy and harsh with pain and loss against his own. Prowl had never known how to deal with non-family members on a personal level (except for Barricade, and see how that had ended).

Small arms clung to the Lord’s plating, and Road Rage stuck her face into the crook of Prowl’s neck. Prowl vented ever so softly, then laid down on the berth, drawing the femme close and rumbled his engine. Silvergrace would always fall asleep when Prowl did that, and he hoped that the rumbling would have the same effect on Road Rage. True enough, it didn’t take long for the youngling to fall into recharge. Prowl carefully lifted Road Rage off him and put her on the berth, tucking her into a warm blanket. Then, after making sure that there was a medic watching over the small Praxian, he left the medical ward and went to his own tent. And only there, with nobody to witness it, did Prowl allow himself to fall apart, to mourn his city and his subjects, and the creation he had lost.

***

They abandoned the search for survivors after a decaorn. It was impossible for anybody to have survived for so long, and the Autobots couldn’t spare the resources. Prowl understood, grateful for what they had already done for him and Praxus, but the small emotional part of his processor that he couldn’t control was raging. How could they abandon the mechs and femmes they hadn’t found yet?

His spark clenched as he looked one last time at the ruins that used to be Praxus, one of the most beautiful cities on Cybertron. He grieved for the Helix Garden, the crystals that were now extinct, the mechs, femmes and sparklings that had perished, and especially those who had not died immediately but suffered for Primus knew how long. A gentle servo touched his elbow, and Prowl turned to look into a worried visor. When had Jazz arrived to help with the search? 

“C’mon, Prowl.” The Polyhexian said softly. 

Prowl gave him an empty look, the turned around and left for the transports. Road Rage was waiting for him, and Prowl finally acknowledged what his spark already knew. He would adopt her (his spark had latched onto the idea of adopting a youngling femme to fill the gap Silvergrace’s deactivation had caused) and give her the possibility of living as good a life as one could have during war. 

Back in Iacon, he did his best to present the perfect Lord, forcing himself to shut down his emotions. There was no place for them in war. Only when he was in his quarters, alone with Smokescreen, who at last received his final upgrades, Skids and Road Rage would he allow himself to feel. 

Two orns after the Autobots returned from Praxus, Prowl received the final number of surviving Praxians: four hundred and ninety-four. He stared at the number, not really believing it. He was glad that he was already sitting, because he definitely would have collapsed otherwise. He used to have a few million subjects, and now there were not even five hundred?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	6. Chapter 5: The Wrong Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If somebody had told him that he would be caught in the middle of a war a few thousand vorns ago, he would have called them crazy.
> 
> Now, however, He couldn’t help wondering if maybe, just maybe, he was on the wrong side of the war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys:) Thank you so much for your kudos and comments for the last chapter! They were very much appreciated, especially after the test today... And all my professors reminding me and my fellow students that exam session is going to start in four weeks. I'm super nervous, all the exams are going to be oral tests with video chats with the profs. Yay...
> 
> Okay, I'll stop rambling now. Sorry for that. I know people have bigger problems than my worries about passing exams. I just needed to get it out of my system. The chapter's kind of a reflection of that.
> 
> Chapter specific warnings: Prowl's only mentioned, psychological sessions with Smokescreen and heavy foreshadowing at the end. Like, planet-Earth-heavy foreshadowing.

“I don’t need to be here.”

The small gold and white mech with the ridiculous goggles over his optics sighed, put his right leg over the left and folded his servos over his knee. “And why is that?” 

Smokescreen glowered at the psychologist, optics fixed on the golden chevron-like structure protruding from the front of his helm. His carrier had sent him to see Rung to ‘ _work through what had happened_ ’ since he was ‘ _unfit_ ’ to do it himself and then left him alone. For the fifth time. But Smokescreen didn’t need this! He was fine, there was nothing to fix!

“I’m fine.” Smokescreen ground out between clenched dentae. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

“Your carrier seems to think you aren’t. Why?” Rung said in his soft, understanding voice. Smokescreen wanted to strangle the fragile looking mech. Primus, who even had transparent plating above their spark? And his field was _always_ so friendly and comforting!

“I don’t know.”

Rung gave him a lopsided smile. “I think you do.”

The Praxian’s wings twitched with annoyance, and Smokescreen huffed, crossing his arms. He looked to the side, adamant to not answer the question. Of course he knew why his carrier had sent him here, and that fragging, nothing-for-good psychologist knew it as well. So why make Smokescreen say it out loud? Not that he would.

He wouldn’t. 

Nope. 

The silence dragged on.

Smokescreen twitched, doorwings jerking back. 

“Fine!” He threw his arms up and glared at the small white and gold mech. “He sent me here because he thinks I’m traumatised or something. About what had happened when we were held prisoners in Barricade’s dungeons and when Praxus fell. Happy?”

Smokescreen glowered, but unlike he had expected, Rung didn’t look smug. Instead he had tilted his helm, a questioning expression on his face. “Why should I be?” He asked.

“I don’t know, because you made me say it?”

Rung gave a gentle, small smile. “And what have I gained from that?” 

Smokescreen shrugged. He didn’t have an answer. “You’re the shrink, why don’t you tell me?”

“Very well.” Rung’s smile widened at the Praxian’s surprised look. “In all of our previous four session, you have never even touched the subject of your captivity and your city. This, this is progress.”

“Progress for what?” Smokescreen asked. “I’m fine, I already told you!”

“Are you?” The goggles dimmed. “Tell you what: you tell me everything that had happened – from right before you were kidnapped to when General Prowl brought back the Praxian youngling – Road Rage, wasn’t it? – without breaking down even once, and I will give you a clean health bill, and you won’t have to return. Deal?”

Smokescreen narrowed his optics. “What’s the catch?” There had to be one, he was sure of it.

“Nothing.” Rung said. “I swear to Primus.”

Smokescreen hesitated. This couldn’t be that hard, could it? He opened his mouth and started talking. About discussing his final upgrades with his carrier, walking through the Helix Garden – watching his carrier crumbling to the ground after being hit by an incapacitator –

Smokescreen’s voice hitched.

Rung rumbled his engine soothingly.

Smokescreen broke down.

***

“Do you still think you don’t need to be here?”

Smokescreen scowled at him. “No.”

Rung shook his helm ever so slightly. “I’m here to help you, Smokescreen, not to aggravate you. Because that won’t help you, won’t help me, and we all will be unhappy. I know you might feel uncomfortable talking to me, but as I have offered you in our first session, you can always talk to someone you trust about this.”

“But they’d still have to report to you.”

“Only about your progress.” Rung replied. “However, in my experience most mechs are able to open up more with someone they know is bound by laws to not talk than someone whom they have to trust to not talk.”

Smokescreen lowered his gaze and stared at the deep green carpeted floor. He already knew that, and if he was honest with himself, he didn’t feel comfortable about talking to his carrier or his uncle about this. And those were the mechs he trusted with his all of his spark. The Praxian eyed the small mech. “I don’t trust you.” He finally said.

Rung gave a small nod. “Most of my clients usually don’t, at the beginning. Just as out there in the real world, I will have to earn your trust, and that’s fine. We can talk about something else until you feel comfortable to tell me about what happened.”

Smokescreen hesitated, wings lowering. He gnawed on his lower lip. “I… I don’t know what to say.”

Rung smiled encouragingly. “Well, let’s start with how you like Iacon? Or Autobot HQ?”

“Iacon’s too big.” Smokescreen confessed, doorwings twitching. “And there isn’t enough nature. In Praxus, we had crystals in every corner, here you’re lucky if you have a crystal in your block. But the Prime Palace… it’s beautiful. It’s hard to describe…”

***

“…nothing like the Helix Garden!”

Rung smiled. “I’ve heard it was unique on Cybertron.”

Smokescreen scoffed. “Cybertron? Try the whole universe! Legend goes that my ancestor, the femme who found our house, met an injured mech. She nurtured him back to health, and as all stories go, they fell in love with each other. But he had to move on eventually, because he had some important role in the universe, blah blah blah, but before he left, he granted her a gift. She loved crystals with all her spark, and he knew it and used his strange magic powers to make them fly and hover in the air and grow a garden. He called it the ‘Helix Garden’. Then he left her, not knowing she was sparked up and she never saw him again.”

“Hm.” Rung hummed. “You shouldn’t become a narrator.” He smiled and waited a klik as Smokescreen laughed, then continued speaking. “When was the last time you were in the Helix Garden?”

Smokescreen immediately turned serious. “Right before Carrier and I were kidnapped.” He said softly.

“What do you remember?” Rung asked, encouraging subglyphs marking his coaxing tone.

“We were discussing my final upgrades.” Smokescreen murmured. His fingers interlocked unconsciously and his wings twitched. “Carrier noticed that our guards were gone and he couldn’t contact anyone. He said we needed to go back, then he broke down. Just like that. I wanted to call for help, but something hit the back of my helm, and that’s it. Until I was woken up by some guard kicking me in that primusforsaken dungeon.”

“Does it taint your memories of the Helix Garden?” Rung asked.

Smokescreen carefully considered the question, then shook his helm. “No, it doesn’t.” The beaming smile on the psychologist’s face told Smokescreen he had done something right.

***

“Tell me about Barricade.”

Smokescreen froze. “I don’t want to talk about him. There’s nothing to talk about, anyways.”

Rung sighed ever so softly. “If you want to enter Autobot Academy, as you have told me in our first session, you will have to be able to talk about Barricade without breaking down or getting defensive.”

“Well, he’s a fragging glitch, may Unicron scrap him.” Smokescreen spat. “And there’s nothing more to him.”

“Language.” Rung scolded. “And that was cursing him, not _talking_ about him. Or what he did to you.”

“He didn’t do anything to me.” Smokescreen harrumphed. 

“Didn’t he?”

“Of course not! I’m his creation. And he needed me alive.” His doorwings flattened against his back. 

Rung tilted his head, goggles glistening. “Why?” He asked softly.

Smokescreen gritted his dentae and shook his helm. He couldn’t say it out loud. It was hard enough to admit it to himself inside his own processor, but talking about it? (That one time he blurted it out in front of the Prime and his entourage didn’t count, he had been too traumatised to watch what he was saying.)

“Smokescreen, it is very important that you talk about what happened. Bottling it up inside you won’t help you on the long run, trust me.” Rung leaned forward, staring the Praxian dead in the optic. “It will destroy you from the inside, unnoticed, until it is too late. I have seen you interact with others in the rec room, and you always present them with a perfectly happy mask. They don’t know you’re hurting, and you don’t let them in. It’s not healthy. So, if you want to prevent yourself from getting ill by hiding the truth behind a façade – and I think your upbringing has something to do with it, Prima help me your Carrier is worse than you – you _need to talk_.” 

It would be easy to get angry at Rung for making him face those truth, and Unicron damn them all, Smokescreen was _so_ tempted to get mad at the psychologist – but it wouldn’t be fair to Rung, and a waste of energy. Besides, the one Smokescreen should be angry with was Barricade. 

“He needed me alive to make sure Carrier obeyed him while he raped him.” Smokescreen murmured, feeling sick. He pressed a servo to his mouth. “I think I need to purge.” The glyphs had just left his vocaliser, when he already emptied his tanks from his lunch. Rung had placed a bucket in front of him by that time, and Smokescreen heaved into it. The smell of half processed Energon hit his olfactory senses and he gagged, purging his tanks a bit more.

A soothing servo rubbed small circles right above his doorwings, and the touch helped Smokescreen regain his composure. He relaxed into the touch, and Rung hummed. “Just get it out. It’s alright.”

Smokescreen huffed into the bucket. “It’s not alright.” He murmured, then sat the pail down. “Why do I react like this? It’s been nearly two quartexes!”

“It takes time.” Rung said gently, his servo soothingly rubbing up and down the Praxian’s back. “Time to heal and talk. And before you start; a mental wound is, more often than not, worse than a physical one.” He pushed a cube with Energon into Smokescreen’s servo. “Here, drink. It’ll take away the bad taste. Now, do you wish to continue or the next time?” 

Smokescreen drank the cube, then straightened in his seat (which was a very comfortable golden couch). “I want to continue.”

Rung smiled proudly.

***

Therapy sessions with Rung did wonders, Smokescreen had to admit after two quartexes. He felt much better, and the bots around him noticed it. Especially the Twins. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe were nearly constantly at his side, though the three of them had decided that they were better off as friends (with sometimes benefit, depending on how they felt). 

And yet, Smokescreen grieved. Grieved for the city he had lost, creator, grandcreators and sister. Especially little Silvergrace. There had yet to be a whole orn without catching himself mourning his Sire or sister. But, as Rung had told him, it was normal. 

Blue optics flickered to where his Carrier was baking Energon goodies with Road Rage. He didn’t know what to think of her. The violet and orange femme was about Silvergrace’s age, give or take a few vorns. She was sweet, adorable and well-mannered, and yet, Smokescreen felt as if she was a replacement for his late sister. 

Also, another thing that worried him: his Carrier seemed to be unaffected by the losses he had suffered. Creators, bondmate, creation. Smokescreen would not have been able to run tactics if he were in his Carrier’s pedes. Road Rage giggled as the monochrome Praxian booped the tip of her nose with an energon-covered finger and Smokescreen stood up, unable to watch it anymore. He really liked Road Rage, but sometimes he just wished that Silvergrace was here in her stead. And he really couldn’t believe how little his Carrier had mourned his second creation. 

Red, blue and black pedes took him down familiar hallways, until he was standing in front of Rung’s ornate office door. He needed to talk about this. Now, preferable, lest he confront his carrier. And _that_ would end ugly.

***

“Ya can’t be serious!” Ironhide shouted, glaring at his Prime. “Prowl, Head Tactician o’ _Iacon_? Why not make ‘im Chief Tactical Officer o’ th’ Army while we’re at tha’?” 

“He does have a point.” Breakaway, Chief Aerial Officer said with a frown. His holoform flickered, then stabilised. “He has barely been an Autobot and you want to appoint him to such an important position? It is one of the fastest ways to enter High Command, especially since we are lacking a Head Tactician. Many mechs, good mechs, have worked hard and would earn this post before that Praxian noble. No offence, Highstep.”

The Acting Head Tactician gave him a rueful smile. “None taken. I _am_ far too inexperienced for commanding the Tactical Unit, especially throughout the entire Army.”

“More the reason t’appoint someone who knows what they’re doin’.” Blaster said. “And like ‘im or not, Lord Prowl does.” The host mech tilted his helm in thought. “He also knows how t’lead mechs, civies and soldiers alike.” 

“Soldiers?” Ultra Magnus asked, intrigued.

“He was both a copper an’ Supreme Commander o’ th’ Praxian Army. Tha’ alone’ll grant him th’ rank o’ Brigadier-General.” Jazz said lazily. He was sprawled in his chair while balancing it on its hind legs, pedes propped on the table. Any other mech would already have fallen on a heap to the floor, not Jazz, though. Ultra Magnus had tried to get him into a proper, serious position – to no avail.

“Ya can’t compare tha’ sorry excuse o’ trained civies with th’ Autobots.” Ironhide huffed. 

Elita One chuckled. “You can’t also deny how he manipulated the battlefield without being familiar with our trouped or procedures. And without being familiar with the Decepticons. He nearly won that battle in Praxus _single-mindedly_. If that doesn’t qualify him for Tac Head, alongside his admirable discipline, computer systems and a nearly one hundred percent guarantee that he won’t join the Decepticons, I don’t know what does. Lord Prowl is exactly what the Autobots need now. Desperately.”

Optimus smiled at the pink femme. He sent affection over their Amica bond and simultaneously asked for a private meeting later. Her confirmation floated over to him, and the Prime turned to his subordinates. “While I am thankful for you to voice your doubts, I have already gone over every problem that may occur. Despite that, it is still my opinion that Prowl is the wisest choice for this. As he has proven several times in the last three quartexes.” 

“He’s a ruthless hardaft with little compassion.” Breakaway growled. “Most soldiers leave his office in tears, the others are scared slagless of him. He doesn’t show any emotions and seems not to care about anyone! It’s as if he’s a drone.”

“He most certainly is _not_ a drone.” Optimus said with a frown. “Of all the battles he had been in charge of, he won all but four, and those had ended in mutual retreat. His casualties and injured ‘bots number is also the lowest of all tacticians throughout the entire _Army_ , a clear sign that he does care about the troops under his command. And, most importantly, he has my trust.” There was a warm brush against his spark, and Optimus smiled. “And the Matrix’s.” He added.

“The Matrix, really?” Ratchet asked. “That damned artefact rarely helps you with anything, but it has an opinion on _Prowl_? Not that I dislike him, mind you, but are you serious?”

“Mechs and femmes, brace yerselves, Ratch ain’t _dislikin’_ someone!” Jazz said theatrically and placed a servo over his spark. “This must be th’ orn we all die.”

“Shut it, youngling, or I’ll haul your sorry aft to medbay and check you for illegal upgrades.” 

The saboteur raised his servos in a placating manner. “Calm yer engine, Ratch, no need t’ get personal.” 

“Why, I’ll show you–”

“Ratchet, Jazz, enough.” Optimus rumbled. “Any other opinions on this matter?” The other Generals shook their helms in negative. Ironhide crossed his arms. “Alright. Lord Prowl will be in command of the Tactical Unit of the Autobots. Which was the last point on our list today. Meeting adjourned, Generals. ‘Till all are one.”

***

If somebody had told him that he would be caught in the middle of a war a few thousand vorns ago, he would have called them crazy. If anyone had told him a few hundred vorns ago that he would question his loyalties, he would have declared them demented. But right now, Blurr couldn’t help the horror filling him. He couldn’t help wondering if maybe, just maybe, he was on the wrong side of the war.

“...ust received a final number. There are roughly five hundred Praxians left. While not a small number, they shouldn’t be too much of a problem for the war.” Shockwave said calmly.

“ _Then you don’t know Prowl very well._ ” A second, admittedly pleasant voice huffed; the annoyed subglyphs could not have been missed. “ _That he fell into Autobot servos is a disaster._ ”

“ _Well, if you hadn’t been thinking so much with your interface arrays and more with the module behind your optics, then maybe that glitched tactician would have ended up on our side._ ” There was no mistaking Starscream’s shrill taunt.

“ _Suggestion: do not make fun of Barricade._ ” Soundwave’s eerie monotone was another voice that Blurr could easily identify. “ _Praxus: has fallen anyways. Starscream: unable to achieve this victory for vorns._ ”

“Irrelevant.” Shockwave cut into the discussion. “Lord Prowl is only one mech, even he is bound to fail eventually.”

“ _Not Prowl_.” interrupted the mech who must be Barricade. “ _Say what you want, but Prowl just_ doesn’t fail.” A pause, that couldn’t mean anything good. “ _Not on his own, at least. I took his spark before he managed to escape, and that could have only happened if he hacked me. You know what that means, don’t you? We just have to wait until the sparkling’s out and use him to our advantage. You saw how easily we defeated the ‘bots in Praxus without dear Prowlie, and that with him just joining the ranks. Give it a few vorns, and Prime’ll be helpless without him_.”

A longer pause.

“ _Alright_.” There was no mistaking this voice either. “ _Soundwave has been able to learn that Praxus’ Lord is already Head Tactician in Iacon. We will wait until his creation is a youngling and get him. I don’t particularly care what happens with him then, just make sure_ that _it happens. Soundwave, Shockwave, Barricade, this’ll be your duty. Do not disappoint me._ ”

“Yes, Lord Megatron.”

“ _Understood_.”

“ _That’ll be my pleasure, my Lord_.”

“ _Good_.”

“ _As long as nothing happens to the sparkling._ ” Starscream said snarkily. 

“ _Oh, for frag’s sake, Screamer, just shut up already and go._ ”

“ _‘Shut up already and go’_.” The Seeker imitated Barricade. “ _I’m serious, Barricade, no harming the bitlet._ ”

A sound of disconnection.

“ _Am I glad that Screamer isn’t part of this._ ” Barricade murmured.

“ _Advise: do not harm sparkling and aggravate Starscream._ ” Soundwave said solemnly. “ _Query: Barricade has plans for the sparkling?_ ”

“ _Sure, Soundy. I want to make sure it’ll know Praxus and loves its home_ dearly.”

“ _Moniker: not appreciated._ ” Blurr must have imagined the indignation in Soundwave’s voice.

“ _Sorry, Wavy. Anyways, how_ are _we going to get my creation?_ ”

“Don’t worry about that.” Shockwave’s deep rumble cut off any complaints Soundwave might have had to the new nickname. “I know just the mech.”

Blurr really hoped it wasn’t him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked the chapter! Feedback is always appreciated;)
> 
> This is my Autobot High Command, btw, with their repective position in command (Prowl's not yet Commander, though):  
> 1\. Optimus Prime  
> 2\. Prowl  
> 3\. Jazz  
> 4\. Elita One  
> 5\. Ultra Magnus  
> 6\. Rachet  
> 7\. Ironhide  
> 8\. Red Alert  
> 9\. Blaster  
> 10\. Hound  
> 11\. Perceptor  
> 12\. Breakaway


	7. Chapter 6: Head Tactician

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He stepped back and motioned for Prowl to close his chestplates. “ _Why_ exactly did you wait so long to come to me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments and kudos, you're the best! Also, I apologise for how long it takes me to answer. Don't take it as an indicator of how much I appreciate them, cause I absolutely love every single one of them. Each comment puts a goofy smile on my face and is fuel for my writing;)
> 
> Also, my baby cousin was born today, so wooho! I know, I'm oversharing, but I'm just so happy :-D
> 
> Anyways, here's the new chapter, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Chapter specific warnings: Jazz is annoying, Prowl's on an emotional rollercoaster and discussion of/thinking about abortion.

It was a prime example of the Autobot’s not-so-bright situation that Prowl made it to Head Tactician of Iacon and Interim Chief Tactician of Autobot High Command in a matter of a few quartexes. Not that he was complaining, quite the opposite actually. The new position was challenging and keeping his processor occupied, giving him the focus he so desperately needed. Because otherwise the only thought occupying his CPU was how to get revenge for his people or break down due to the spark-searing pain he was still feeling.

The Lord was sitting in his office, when the door suddenly slid open. Prowl’s head shot up, servo already reaching for his rifle, before his processor recognized the visored mech as an ally. “General Jazz.” Prowl said stiffly. “What can I do for you?”

“So, it’s General Jazz now, huh?” Jazz asked and plopped down in one of the two chairs in front of Prowl’s desk. “Wha’ happened t’ jus’ ‘Jazz’?”

“As Third in Command of the Autobots, you are now my superior officer, sir.” The Praxian replied calmly. 

“Fair ‘nough, bu’ I‘m no good with titles. An’ ‘sirs’.” Jazz leered. “‘Cept ‘n berth, then I don’ mind.”

Prowl stiffened. “This behaviour is more than inappropriate–”

The saboteur smirked. “ _But_ , I know how ya’re, so I’ll jus’ settle with no formalities.’Cept if ya’re up fer it, then I’ll get more. Ya know where t’ find me, _General_.” Jazz purred the last glyph.

“Did you need anything else, or did you simply hack my door to harass me?” Prowl asked, his voice hard.

Shaking his helm, Jazz propped his pedes on the Praxian’s desk. “Nah, I wanted t’ congratulate ya. Ya jumped th’ line and got t’ be Tac Head. Bu’ if anyone’d be able t’ do this, it’d be ya.”

Prowl stared at the offending appendages on his desk. “Your sentiment is appreciated. Now, if you would please leave, I have work to do, and so do you, if I remember correctly.”

“Nah, I did all my work, an’ ‘m bored.” Jazz replied. The Praxian stared at him, then abruptly stood up and gathered the datapads littering his desk. “Hey, where’re ya goin’?”

“To my quarters, since apparently it is the only place I will have some quiet.” Prowl replied. “And, no, you will not join me.”

“One orn, Prowler, one orn.”

Prowl was too busy to get out of the Polyhexian’s presence to comment on the nickname.

***

Optimus’ door chimed, and the Prime sent the silent command for the door to open. On its other side stood Prowl, optics focused on his datapad. He looked as put together as always, and it wasn’t for the first time that Optimus wondered how he did it. Especially after everything he had suffered through and everything that was resting on his shoulders. From what Optimus had heard, apart from being the Autobot’s Interim Head Tactician, he was still ruling – if it could be called ruling – the surviving Praxians, overseeing his creation’s military and tactical training, training other tacticians, and raising that Praxian youngling he had rescued, Road Rage.

“Prime, I–” Prowl entered and looked up, only to freeze right after he passed the threshold. His intelligent and cold blue optics swept over Optimus desk, taking in the seemingly endless stacks of datapads. A frown appeared on the Lord’s faceplate. “What are those?” 

“Datapads.” Optimus replied dryly before he sobered up. “Reports, logistics, organization, requests, recommendations for improvements or upgrading and more.”

The Praxian tilted his head, doorwings rising up. “Why are you managing them all? Shouldn’t your Second in Command deal with this?”

“Some of them.” Optimus agreed. “But Ultra Magnus is only my interim Second until I can find somebody who can replace him.”

Prowl had a contemplating look on his face, before nodding. “Give me the logistic pads, I am capable of dealing with them. I gathered more than enough experience with doing logistics for Praxus.”

“You are already my Head Tactician, I cannot ask more of you.” Optimus protested, even though the Matrix very much agreed with the Praxian and he was in desperate need of help. It also pointed out that that unique battle computer inside of the Praxian’s cranium could finish his work in a fifth of the time Optimus needed.

“My processor is not stimulated sufficiently, and I would enjoy the challenges.” Prowl said as if he had followed the Prime’s thoughts, and his expression softened the slightest bit. “You are not on your own, Optimus. There is a reason you have the High Command to rely on. Delegate more tasks to your subordinates when your workload becomes too high.” He held out a servo. “Logistics, please.”

Optimus shook his head, amused, but gave him what he wanted. “You are a force to be reckoned with, Lord Prowl.” Then, remembering something, Optimus pulled out two datapads. “These contain information about High Command. Their backgrounds, mostly.” He smiled gently. “If you wish to discuss this after you have read them, feel free to come. Especially Jazz’s.” Curiosity piqued, the Praxian took the datapads, then dipped his doorwings in thanks and turned around. “Prowl, why did you come?”

“Ah, yes.” The monochrome mech turned back and placed a datapad on Optimus’ considerable emptier desk. “An overview of the tactical units from all around Cybertron, transfer requests, casualties and new recruits, as well as other information. I thought you might be interested.”

Optimus nodded and smiled warmly at the Praxian. “Thank you.”

Prowl nodded, then, after a last flick of his doorwings, left Optimus’ office.

***

“Prowl!”

The Praxian jerked to a stop, surprise written all over his faceplates for a klik before the ever-present stoic mask slipped back onto his faceplate. He turned around to the entrance of the rec room he had just passed, and his optics fell on a familiar blue and white frame. “Mirage?” 

The Towers mech smirked. “Good to know that the Fall of Praxus didn’t corrupt your memory files.”

Prowl raised an optic ridge. “Good to know that the fall of the Towers did not bereave you of your unique sense of humor.” Mirage gave a melodious laugh. They clapsed their forearms together. “It has been quite a while.” Prowl finally noted the other mech standing next to the noble and flickered his doorwings in greeting, quickly stepping back. “General Jazz.”

“Prowler. Didn’ know ya knew ‘Raj.” The saboteur said.

“My designation is Prowl. And yes, we are quite well acquainted.” The tactician replied. The corners of his lips curled up ever so slightly at Mirage. “Mirage was my creators’ ward for a few vorns during our mechlinghood.”

“Oh?” Jazz turned his helm to the blue and white mech. “Ya didn’ tell me.”

Mirage shrugged. “It wasn’t relevant. Now however…” He turned back to the Lord. “I’m sorry for what happened.”

Prowl ex-vented softly. “As am I.” His doorwings moved ever so slightly outward. “I did not know you knew Jazz.” Mirage’s golden optics stared at his wings, then at Prowl, an amused smirk tugging at his lips. 

“He’s my SIC an’ one o’ my best friends.” Jazz drawled, his optic band trained on Prowl, and the Praxian could somehow tell that the Polyhexian was also staring at his wings. He glanced at them, but found nothing amiss.

“Ah, that would explain this.” He flickered his sensor panels. “I would like to meet with you and catch up over some Energon, Mirage, if time allows it. We have not seen each other in quite a while.”

The blue and white noble lifted the corners of his lips. “I am free tomorrow afternoon, if it suits you?”

“Tomorrow, then.” Prowl nodded. “Mirage, General.” And with that, the Praxian turned around to go back to his office, leaving behind two amused mechs.

“Did I read him correctly?” Mirage asked, glancing at his superior with a knowing glint in amber optics. 

Jazz grinned proudly. “Ya bet ya did.”

***

Prowl couldn’t believe it. All the signs had been there, but he had hoped they were wrong. He didn’t want to believe it. But there, right next to his spark, was a small shiny speck of light. _A sparkling_. “No.” Prowl whispered. “No, no, no, no, no.” His chestplates snapped shut and he fell to his knees, screaming in frustration and helplessness.

He couldn’t have a sparkling. He couldn’t have _Barricade’s_ sparkling. This couldn’t be happening, it just could not be true! His servos were clutching at his chest. What had he done to deserve this? Yes, Prowl had known that hacking Barricade during a sparkmerge would increase the probability that he would get sparked immensely, but he had hoped he would have been spared. Everything that had happened came crushing down on him: the kidnapping, the torture, the rape, Praxus falling…

Prowl’s engine was hitching, and tears were running down his cheeks. He didn’t want to carry. Not without a mate, not so soon after losing… This time, a sob escaped his vocaliser. Maybe he should get rid of the sparkling. But the thought alone tore his spark apart. He had once thought so about Smokescreen, and his bitlet had turned out to be the greatest joy in his life. So, maybe… maybe he should keep it?

Suddenly, he was overcome by the wish to have Strider with him. Prowl curled into a tight ball on the floor, softly sobbing his sparkmate’s name. This overwhelming emotion of _missing_ someone… He had felt it once before, the time Barricade had been exiled. Back then, he had longed for the sire of his sparkling, for him to be by his side, to be his conjunx… And now, now he was aching for the presence that once filled the gap in his chest, the opposite side to the frayed bond to his spark.

Prowl didn’t know how long he was lying there, thoughts circling in his processor. He might have crashed, he didn’t know. “Carrier?” Smokescreen’s voice jerked him out of his haze and he stood up, legs shaking. “Are you alright?”

Prowl palmed the door open, smiling weakly at his creation. “Smokescreen. I’m…” He hesitated, unwilling to lie to him. “I need to check something with Ratchet.”

“Ratchet? What is it?” The cadet’s optics were shining with worry, wings mirroring the emotion. “Are you hurt?”

The older Praxian ex-vented softly. Smokescreen would only worry unnecessarily if he didn’t tell him what was up. “I am carrying, Smokescreen.” He said quietly.

The young mech froze. “No.” He said. “Don’t…” He pressed his lips together. “Get rid of it. Barricade will not–”

“Stop.” Prowl interrupted him. “I know you are angry. I know you feel helpless. But don’t take it out on an innocent sparkling. I will keep it, because when I look at you, I wonder if it will turn out like you, and I would never forgive myself if I ‘got rid of it’.”

“It’s not logical. At all.” Smokescreen growled. “A sparkling will hinder you, will make your position in Autobot High Command more dangerous. Why is it that your usually so logical mind decided to take a break?” He scrutinised at his carrier. “Don’t tell me you’re keeping it because you still have feelings for Barricade!”

“What?” Prowl exclaimed, indignantly. “No, I do not. I am keeping it, because I will not condemn an innocent life, simply because its sire is my rapist and _I_ chose to hack him, knowing fully well what the consequence would be.” He narrowed his optics. “It will share your creators, both of them.”

Smokescreen lowered his helm. “Do you think I don’t know that?” He murmured. “But it’s your decision, and…” His gaze turned shy. “I would like to have a sibling again.”

Prowl touched his field, doorwings flickering with comfort. “You will. And yes, that Barricade is the sire may have influenced my decision. You are his as well, and you are an exceptional young mech; as will the newspark be. I probably would not have kept another mech’s sparkling. On another note: do you wish to accompany me?”

“Yes!” 

Prowl chuckled at his creation’s sheepish expression. “Then come.” They walked silently to med bay, absorbed in thought. A few steps before they reached the door marking the beginning of Ratchet’s domain, Smokescreen reached out and took Prowl’s servo, gripping it tightly. Prowl extended his field, engulfing his creation with comfort and gently squeezed his servo, before letting go. 

First Aid greeted them with a wide smile, radiating more happiness than should be allowed in med bay. “Prowl! Smokey! What can I do for you?”

“I need to see Ratchet.” Prowl said.

“Sure thing! I’ll get him. You can enter examination room three. The Hatchet will be there momentarily.” He winked, then was gone.

“Hatchet?” Prowl echoed bemused once they were in room three.

“Well, you know how he can get.” Smokescreen explained, wiggling his doorwings. “I think the story was that he once threw a hatchet at a patient and thus received the nickname.”

“I don’t only throw hatchets.” A voice grumbled and Smokescreen flinched, giggling nervously. “I actually prefer wrenches.”

“Uh, okay?”

Ratchet narrowed his optics at him, then turned to Prowl. “What can I do for you?”

Prowl opened his chestplates wordlessly. He had never had problems to show a medic his spark, and Smokescreen had already seen it before. Ratchet stepped closer, scanner already scanning, but he paid it no attention. He reached out with his servo, his touch clinically and not uncomfortable, as Prowl had feared.

“You’re sparked, but you probably already know that. And I think I already know who the sire is. It’s been about five quartexes already.” His optics and fingers examined the tiny sparkling. “You’ve carried before, you know the symptoms, know exactly when you were sparked, know the risks.” He stepped back and motioned for Prowl to close his chestplates. “ _Why_ exactly did you wait so long to come to me?”

Prowl lowered his head. “I did not want to believe it.” He admitted. “And at first, I did not want to carry Barricade’s sparkling.” He gave Smokescreen a small smile. “But I want to keep it now.”

Ratchet searched his optics, and after a while he nodded. “If you’re sure that it’s the right decision for you, I’ll support you. You still have two decaorns’ time to change your mind, though, but if you’re gonna decide to terminate the newspark, I’d recommend you make up your mind as soon as possible. Better for you, and better for the little one.” Ratchet waited for Prowl to nod, then continued. “Now, seeing that you don’t have the sire to don his fluids for the little one’s growth, I’ll prescribe you some supplements you need to take, that will help your own spark to keep it strong. Your spark should be strong enough to sustain it on its own, but I want you here for weekly check-ups, I won’t take any risks with either of you.”

“Thank you.” Prowl said.

“Hmpf. You should’ve come earlier. The little one’s looking good, by the way. Healthy and strong.”

This time, a smile appeared on the Praxian’s face, and he caught his creation’s beaming optics.

***

Prowl was sitting nervously on the couch in his quarters in front of Side Burn, Skids, and Road Rage. They deserved to know the truth, which didn’t make it any easier, though. His creation’s comforting field calmed his nerves a bit, but it didn’t help to quell his fears. Prowl shuttered his optics, vented deeply, then onlined them again, looking at the mechs and femmes he considered family.

“I went to see Ratchet today.” The monochrome Lord said quietly, and quickly raised a servo to stall any questions. “And he confirmed what I have already been suspecting for a few decaorns: I am sparked.”

“Sparked?” Side Burn repeated, disbelief marking his glyphs. He narrowed his optics, and then, to Prowl’s infrared vision, turned a sick blue. “I’m going to kill him.” He growled. “Very slowly and very painfully.”

“Kill who?” Road Rage asked. A small bemused frown adorning her purple faceplate, and she climbed into Prowl’s lab after the noble had motioned for her to do so. “I thought having a sparkling is a good thing?”

“It is, my little Star, Side Burn is merely worried that I am carrying during a war.” Prowl bounced his leg and the femme giggled. “Why don’t you and Greenspark go with Smokescreen and see the Twins? I am sure they will welcome any distraction they can get.”

Greenspark, Skids’ ward who had accompanied him to Prowl’s quarters, wrinkled her nose, but complied when Skids nudged her to do as her Lord had commanded indirectly. Prowl eyed her contemplatively. Ever since Skids had offered his live to Prowl she had grown distant, sometimes openly questioning his decisions. He would need to have a glyph with Skids about her.

Smokescreen took Road Rage’s small servo in his and offered his arm to the older femme, then left after having thrown a last look at his carrier. The moment the three young bots had left, Side Burn and Skids turned their optics to Prowl.

“Don’t tell me he raped you.” Side Burn begged. “Please tell me you merely gave in to Jazz and he sparked you up because you were reckless.”

Prowl shook his helm. “I have not willingly lain with anyone since…” He reset his vocaliser. “You both know how my relationship with Strider was, which means that there is no doubt about the sparkling’s sire.”

“Primus.” Skids muttered, and he and Prowl ignored the younger Lord’s cursing. “I imagine you’re keeping it?”

“Yes.”

Side Burn made a strange sound, something in between revving his engine and a hiccup. “Well, since ‘Cade can’t contribute anymore, I really hope we’ll have a mini-you running around.” Prowl reached over and pushed his brother off the couch. “Hey!”

Skids chuckled. “It will be good for you to concentrate on something other than work and war.”

“You mean, because I do not have enough to do with Smokescreen and Road Rage?” Prowl asked, amused.

“Exactly.”

***

Prowl didn’t know how he did it, but Jazz somehow managed to get under his armour. Every. Single. _Fragging_. Time. No matter where, no matter when. His spark would always flip in his chest, spinning wildly and out of proportion for his encounters with the saboteur. It disturbed Prowl, since he was used to being in control of his frame and emotions – but come one black-and-white Polyhexian, and gone were thousands of vorns of experience. 

This orn, it was in the rec room after the light-cycle shift ended. Prowl was just getting his Energon, intending to join his creation and Mirage, who were sitting together and currently the officer’s mess hall’s only occupants, when Jazz stepped up to him.

“Heya, Prowler.”

Prowl’s doorwings tensed, but no non-Praxian could know what the tiny jerk upwards meant. Why did Jazz insist on that stupid nickname? Prowl had told him repeatedly that he did _not_ like it. And why did those two glyphs affect him so much? Why did they set his spark in a wild spin? “Jazz.” He replied emotionlessly, before walking past him.

“Oh, c’mon! Don’ be like tha’!” Jazz fell into step besides the noble. “Can’t a mech have a conversation with ya?”

“I have nothing to talk with you.” Prowl said coolly.

Jazz stepped into his way, forcing the Praxian into a stop, a slight frown on his face. “D’ya enjoy bein’ all cold an’ drone-like like tha’?” He asked. He tapped at Prowl’s chestplates, and Prowl’s carrier instincts took over, fuelled by the anger at the insult and memories of another black servo demanding entrance. With a smooth move he surprised the spy, catching his wrists and pushing him backwards, then pressing him against a table.

A growl left his lips and Prowl hissed, “Do not touch me.” His doorwings flared threateningly. Jazz’s visor flashed brightly, but he seemed frozen in his position.

“Carrier!” Smokescreen’s voice cut through his haze and Prowl jumped back as if burned, servos clenched and wings still in an aggressive position. “Turn on your processor, please, because Jazz didn’t mean you any harm. I know you’re annoyed and your situation is not helping you to think clearly, but you’re safe.”

Prowl’s tense frame relaxed, and he vented his system to calm himself. He flickered his doorwings with affection at Smokescreen, then turned to look at Jazz. “I am sorry. But my control over myself is slipping ever since I started carrying, and your touching and antagonising is not helping.” Prowl touched his chestplates unconsciously. 

“Ya’re carrin’?” Jazz asked, surprised. His visor dimmed, and Prowl could practically see the cogs in his processor turning. “It’s from–”

“That’s quite enough.” Prowl interrupted pleasantly. His gaze fell upon his spilled Energon and he felt the sudden urge to cry. Without a word he turned around and left the silent rec room, the tips of his doorwings trembling. He really needed to get a grip on himself.

***

There was a soft knock on Prowl’s office door, and the Praxian sent the silent command for it to open. His optics narrowed as his visitor was revealed, not very happy about this mech’s presence.

“Jazz.” Prowl said curtly. “What do you want?”

The saboteur entered and sat down on the other side of the Praxian’s desk, visor glowing dimly. “I wanted t’ apologize fer wha’ happened in th’ mess hall. An’ what I said. Ya didn’ even get yer Energon.” The Polyhexian hesitated, then pulled out two cubes. “Let me make it up t’ ya?” He asked and pushed one of the cubes towards Prowl. “An’ don’ worry ‘bout me not gettin’ th’ blend righ’, Smokey made it.”

The tactician stared at the cube, not really comprehending what was happening here. He lifted his helm to look at Jazz, wings twitching bemusedly. 

“Jus’ drink.” Jazz said softly, a smirk at the corner of his lips. “It’s not poisoned, promised.”

Gingerly, Prowl took hold of the cube and took a sip. It was just as he liked it (then again, Smokescreen would know), and he flickered his wings at the saboteur with thanks.

“Ya’re welcome.” Jazz replied, and Prowl stared at him a bit more. How did he know the language of doorwings? The saboteur grinned at his expression. “’M Head of Spec Ops, wha’ did ya expect? I know nearly every Cybertronian language an’ dialect, even though I don’ speak most o’em. Jus’ need t’ understand ‘em, eh?”

Prowl had to admit that the Polyhexian had a point. He dipped his wings in understanding, making a note in his processor to take extra care about his doorwings when around Jazz. “True enough.” He finally conceded. They drank the Energon in companionable silence. “Jazz?” The saboteur looked up, head tilted questioningly. “I am also sorry about what happened before.”

The Polyhexian grinned. “No prob. No harm done, righ’?” His smirk turned mischievous, which set off every alarm Prowl had. “’Sides, I like it when ya show yer dominant side. Gets me all revved up.”

Prowl stared at the black and white mech, engine growling angrily. “Out.” He snapped, just barely holding back the impulse to chunk his nearly empty cube at the saboteur.

Jazz cackled madly, but did as commanded. Not without pointily revving his engine though. Prowl threw his empty cube at him, just barely missing the Polyhexian, and instead hitting the wall on the other side of the corridor. And despite himself, Prowl couldn’t help but smile, his mood lifted.

***

“… should be enough to get the Decepticons to back off for at least a quartex.” Perceptor closed his report.

Optimus nodded. “Alright, you will get the funds and resources for this weapon. Just make sure that Wheeljack does not touch it.” Laughter went through Autobot High Command. Jazz promptly used the lighter mood to put his pedes on the table, but Prowl immediately pushed them down. “Is there anyone else who wishes to add something?” The red and blue mech asked.

Prowl caught Ratchet’s optics on the other side of the table and opened his mouth to speak, when Ultra Magnus beat him to it. “Yes, Prime, I want to add something. I am Acting Commander, as you all know, but, as I have informed you repeatedly, I do not wish to have this position.” His dark blue optics swept over the gathered Autbots, before settling on Optimus. “I request you to name at least somebody else your Chief Tactician.”

“That decision cannot be made on a whim, Ultra Magnus.” Prowl said with a frown. “Optimus will need time to contemplate who will be able to handle such responsibility–”

“Will he?” Ultra Magnus interrupted him, then turned to Optimus. “Do you really need more time, Prime? Because I think we both know who will become Chief Tactician of the Autobots.”

Optimus sighed and nodded. “Indeed I do. Prowl, I know you are already doing a lot for us, but would you consider becoming–”

“Absolutely not!” Ratchet exploded. 

Everyone stared at the medic, except for Prowl. The Lord was sitting shell-shocked in his chair, optics focused on the table, but not transmitting any data. Optimus wanted him to become a member of Autobot High Command. Him, Prowl of Praxus. He, who had only been an Autobot for about five quartexes. 

“..owl? Prowl?” 

Prowl jerked out of his thoughts and looked up, meeting eleven worried optics. “Forgive me, I did not catch that. What did you say?”

“Ratchet said that you couldn’t accept. Why?” Red Alert asked, optics narrowed in suspicion.

The Praxian glanced at the medic, then at Jazz, before finally meeting the Prime’s gaze. “I wanted to tell you today, at the end of this meeting. I feel honoured in the trust you have to even consider me for this position, but…” He glanced at Ratchet again before squarely looking at Prime, shoulders set. “I am carrying.”

His words were met with silence. Prowl didn’t dare look away, and his doorwings tensed and became even more rigid in their usual neutral position. His chin lifted the tiniest bit. The thought that Smokescreen might have been right about the sparkling hindering his career briefly crossed his mind, but he quickly dismissed the thought.

“I’m sorry.” Prowl’s head jerked to the side and stared at Red Alert. The red and white mech shrugged. “Can’t be easy, having the sparkling of the mech who raped you.” Prowl pressed his lips together. He didn’t need a reminder of that. “If you ever need anything. Just ask.” Once again, the Praxian stared at Red Alert, but the Security Director was looking away, an awkward expression on his face.

Prowl reset his vocaliser. “Thank you.” He stiffened as someone trailed a servo down his right doorwing, but nobody else noticed except for Jazz, to whom said servo belonged to. The caressing touch continued, and after a brief moment, Prowl surrendered to it and started to relax.

“Prowl.” The Praxian turned his gaze to Optimus, who was looking at him with the softest expression in his optics. “While this is unexpected, it does not change my mind. If you accept to be my Head of the Tactical Division, you may begin either while you are carrying or after your sparkling has emerged.”

Prowl smiled ever so slightly. “Then it would be my honour to become Chief Tactician in eight quartexes.” He dipped his doorwings in thanks.

Optimus turned to Ultra Magnus. “Will you be able to hold your position for that period of time or should my lazy Third do it?”

“Wha’?!” Jazz nearly toppled backwards as he suddenly sat up. His servo slipped down to the hinges connecting the sensor panels to Prowl’s back, and the Praxian had to cut off his vocalizer lest he’d moan in front of the gathered command staff as pleasure shot through his systems.

“I will do the work until Prowl takes over, otherwise it will never get done. And we do not want Prowl to offline himself on his first orn as TacHead.” Ultra Magnus talked over the saboteur.

“Hey!” Jazz exclaimed. “Now wait a breem!”

“Agreed.” Optimus said, his glyph marked by amused subharmonics. “Then I call this meeting to an end, and we will meet in a decaorn. ‘Till all are one.”

“Prowl, Prime, a moment?” Ratchet said. Chairs were scraped across the floor, except for the three mechs. After everyone had left, Prowl and Optimus looked at the medic, expectant. “I know that both of you think that you’ll be able to continue as he did, Prowl, but you can’t. You don’t have the sire, which means that that sparkling will draw all of its energy from you. Which in turn means: no stressful situations, no overtime, no battles. Not even to coordinate them.”

“Your concern is appreciated, but unnecessary.” Prowl said. “I know my limits and I will take no risks with the sparkling. I promise.”

Ratchet glared at him. “Fine. But the moment you overdo it, I pull my rank on you. And Optimus, it’ll be your task to make sure it doesn’t even come to that. Because if it will… you both will wish you’d listened to me. Understood?”

“Yessir.” Optimus muttered, then raised his servos in a placatory manner at the glare he received. “Understood.”

Prowl nodded in agreement, and finally Ratchet left, clearly satisfied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand that's it! I hoped you liked it and that I was able to successfully convey how Prowl's feeling right now, because boy, it wasn't easy to write.


	8. Chapter 7: Meet the Bee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mirage shrugged and refused to look at Prowl. “He is very interested in you.” 
> 
> Prowl flicked his left wing downwards. “He is Polyhexian.” He replied. “Which would also sum up most of his traits. Not to mention his… berth-hopping.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! 
> 
> Sorry for the long wait but I had six exams in five weeks which meant no time for writing. But! I'm now free until September and I hope you'll be able to get regular updates:)
> 
> Anyways, here's the new chapter, I hope you enjoy!

“Ya’re workin’ too much.”

Prowl jerked upwards in his chair. Jazz was leaning against his doorframe, arms crossed and one of his pedes cocked. “How did you get in?” Prowl asked thinly, spark spinning fast.

It’s been nine quartexes since Prowl had joined the Autobots, four since he had found out that he was carrying – and Jazz had started to bring him Energon to his office every evening. Without fail. Prowl was kind of looking forward to his ornly visits, but there was also always that subliminal feeling of wariness. Surely Jazz didn’t bring him Energon just from the goodness of his spark.

“Ya forgot t’ lock th’ door.” Jazz said easily, before pushing himself off the wall and sauntered over to one of the chairs in front of Prowl’s desk. He plopped down and grinned at the tactician. “An’ ya forgot yer Energon again.” He pulled two cubes out of his subspace, then pushed one of them to the Praxian. Prowl eyed first the cube, then the Polyhexian, before dipping his doorwings in thanks. “Ya’re welcome. Now, I seem ta vaguely remember tha’ ya wanted t’ tell me ‘bout bein’ called cold?”

Prowl snorted involuntarily. Trust Jazz to remember that. “Wanting?” He repeated. “It was more of a desperate attempt to get rid of you.”

“Ouch.” Jazz pressed his servos to his chest. “Ya wound me, Prowler.”

“My name is Prowl.” Doorwings flared sidewards. “Not Prowler. As I have told you repeatedly.”

“It’s a nickname, mech!” Jazz smirked, a mischievous glint in his visor. The Praxian immediately sat up straighter, wary of that expression. “Prowlie?”

Prowl shuddered. “That makes me sound as if I was a youngling.” Also, that was the nickname Barricade had given him, but he wouldn’t tell Jazz about that.

“Hm, it makes you sound cute. Prowlster?” He added quickly, before the Praxian could object to being called ‘cute’. “Prow-Prow?”

Prowl cringed. “Alright, you can call me Prowler. Primus and the Thirteen.”

Jazz grinned. “Prowler it is! So, Prowler, tell me ‘bout bein’ cold.”

The tactician sighed and leaned back in his chair. It appeared he just had to deal with it. “You will not let me be until I tell you, will you?” Jazz gave a cheeky grin and Prowl shook his head. Might as well get it over with. “There were many who called me cold or a drone, mostly because I rely on my tactical systems and logic too much – in their opinion at least. In my field of work, showing emotions towards those under your command is fatal for every mission that it planned. 

“I did not really care about anyone’s opinion, except for my family’s, Mirage’s and two mechs I cared very deeply for: Tumbler and Barricade. Tumbler was one of my first lovers. He was kind, affectionate, but his feelings run very deep. I know he loved me and I, too, had deep affections for him. However, there were two things he was unable to ignore and those were my tactical systems, which I emerged with, and the battle computer I was upgraded with when I was a sparkling. He felt that I was too aloof sometimes and my systems were the trigger for most of our arguments.” Prowl shrugged his left wing.

“It got even more complicated when he became was my partner since I, ah, was not the easiest mech to work with. We worked well, no doubt in that, and we fought less than before…” Prowl ex-vented softly. “He was the only lover I had who was neither a noble nor Praxian. However, his skills and social background in Iacon deemed him acceptable for a relationship, even though I knew that we could never be more than that.”

He sighed. “It ended ugly. We had a mutual friend; Tumbler’s best friend in Praxus, Cable. I had planned a mission for the Cable and three others but something unexpected happened, something none of us had been able to predict, not even me. I ordered Cable to leave since the probability that his three teammates had survived were lower than five percent. I was not about to lose him as well. He did not listen to me and he died in the following explosion. Tumbler blamed me for it and our following fight… well, I have never seen him again.

“I was crowned Lord Heir after that and had to leave the Enforcers to start my military training. It is where I met Barricade, who was one of my superior officers. Of course, we had known each other as younglings and while going to school, but then we went different ways. He had been my best friend, and rekindling our friendship was easy, so very easy…

“We fell in love with each other. And it was not a rebound or anything I ever felt before. I truly loved him. So much that we shared sparks, even though I am a carrier.” Prowl grimaced. “When we learned about his dealings with the Decepticons, I had no choice but to terminate our relationship. But, if I have to be honest, we were already heading that way. Barricade wanted us to bond but we could not, no matter how much we wanted it. Rules and tradition did not allow it and I would not break them. No matter how often I had promised him to find a way around them. There just was no way.” The Praxian pressed his lips together. “He called me an emotionless, cold, sparkless drone who used other mechs for my own goals.”

“Tha’ must’ve hurt.” Jazz said softly.

Prowl gave him a look that oozed with self-disdain. “It did. I hated myself for caring about his opinion. It should not have mattered, and yet it did.” He downed his Energon. “Now you know. I have been called cold far more often than I can count, but those two times hurt the most.”

“Those two mechs’re aftheads, an’ if I e’er encounter ‘em, I’ll give ‘em a piece o’ m’ processor.” Jazz stated firmly and emptied his own cube, a smug smile tugging at the corner of his lips as Prowl gave a startled laugh. “Thanks fer sharin’, it means a lot t’ me, t’ be honest. An’ if ya e’er need anythin’, don’ hesitate, jus’ ask. I’ll help ya, promised.”

Surprise and shock spread through the tactician. He had never thought Jazz cared that much about him. “Thank you.” He said softly.

Jazz stood up and grinned. “My pleasure.” He replied and sauntered out of Prowl’s office, his swaying hips catching the attention of icy blue optics.

***

The next orn, Jazz didn’t show up. Prowl wasn’t worried, though, he knew the Polyhexian had gone on a mission to the Rust Sea. It had the double benefit of both giving Prowl a respite from the saboteur and an evening without having fuelled to meet up with Mirage. 

Prowl was already sitting in the officer’s mess hall, a cube of glowing pink Energon on the table in front of him. While he was waiting for the towers mech to show up he read a report from Silverbolt, who had gone with a few other flyers on a scouting flight over Protihex. The more he read, the surer Prowl was that this city was going to be their next battlefield. Decepticon activity was surging despite Protihex being an Autobot city and small skirmishes had already broken out between Decepticon sympathisers and ‘bots. The Praxian frowned and tapped at a name that appeared on his screen. _Skydive_. Silverbolt’s younger brother appeared to have an affinity for battle strategies. With a decisive nod, Prowl made a note on his HUD to remind him of requesting a transfer for the Aerialbot. Tacticians were always needed but Skydive could always be sent out to battle should Superion be needed. And that brought the bonus of having tactical optics on sight. A small smile graced Prowl’s lips. Yes, that would work nicely.

“Should I be afraid?” A mildly lofty voice asked. “You are _smiling_.” 

Prowl looked up, one corner of his mouth curling into a lopsided smile. “Mirage.” He rose and touched his servo to the blue and white noble’s upper arm. “Please, sit down.” 

A delicate optic ridge was raised as Mirage sat down, his golden optics never leaving Prowl’s face. “You are more touchy than usually.” He commented. 

“Maybe.” Prowl agreed. “If you are talking about emotions. I have never refrained from touching _you_.” 

The shudder running through the towers mech’s frame was very visible, and Prowl allowed himself another smirk. “True. Primus, but you are talented with those servos.” A mischievous look entered the noble’s optics and he leaned forward, his voice dropping huskily. “It reflects well on your teacher.”

Playing along, Prowl closed the distance between them until there were only a few inches separating them. “Oh? I do not recall having a teacher. Most of my skills were learned by trial and error. Unless you wish to admit that your teacher was far superior?” 

Mirage gasped. “How scandalous, my Lord!” They continued to stare at each other until Mirage broke into laughter. Prowl smiled at the trilling sound and sat back, his wings tilted outwards and forwards to convey his amusement. “Oh, I missed this.” Mirage took a sip from his Energon. “It has been a long time since we last shared this.”

“Not all that long.” Prowl replied with a contemplative frown and his wings drooped. “You were the one to teach me how to hack a spark during a merge.” 

“A skill well used, or so I have heard.” 

The Praxian snorted. “Quite. It saved my creation’s life.” He dipped his wings in a small bow. “I am ever grateful for that.” 

Golden optics softened and Mirage reached over the table to take hold of a white servo with his own. “Anything for you, old friend.” He squeezed gently. “And it was very pleasurable teaching you.” Mirage tilted his helm. “Though, I do wonder. Not ten quartexes after I taught you, Smokescreen emerged. Were you…”

Prowl vented a sigh. “Yes, I was already sparked. I hadn’t known yet, I learned about having kindled only after Barricade was exiled.”

The Towers mech sat back, dazed. “Smokescreen is partly mine?” 

“He is.” Prowl confirmed. “And I am glad. It gave me another argument against his abortion since my creators would not dare risk your ire.”

Mirage shook his helm. “Well, thank Primus for that. Smokescreen is a fine young mech.” He smirked. “He has your gift for tactics.” 

“He does. And yours for hedonism. That is neither Barricade nor me.” Prowl flicked his left wing. “He does not know, however. I leave it up to you if you wish to tell him.”

“I will think about it.” Mirage leaned back in his chair and smiled at him. “You know, telling him means that I owe him over five hundred presents, and I am currently somewhat low on shanix.” 

Prowl snorted. “I doubt he would hold you to that. Anyways, I need to go back to my quarters. Ratchet will have my wings if I do not get the amount of recharge he ordered me to have.” 

The noble barked a laugh. “We wouldn’t want to risk the medic’s ire, now, would we?” His golden optics sparkled. “I will not keep you here any longer, then. But we should do this again soon, if you want to.” 

“Certainly.” Prowl’s lips twitched upwards in an attempt to smile. “Next decaorn, same time?”

Mirage gave a sharp nod. “It’s a date.” 

“I will have to tell Jazz to forego the Energon then.” Prowl mused and rose to his pedes. 

“He brings you Energon?” Mirage asked and raised a delicate optic ridge.

“Every orn without fail, unless he is on a mission.” 

“Huh.” The blue and white Towers mech scrutinised the royal Praxian as they left the officer’s mess hall. “So, what do you think of Jazz?” He asked in an entire innocent manner. It immediately made Prowl suspicious, and he narrowed his icy blue optics at his once-lover.

“Why are you asking?” 

“Just because.” Mirage shrugged and refused to look at Prowl. “He is very interested in you.” 

Prowl flicked his left wing downwards. “He is Polyhexian.” He replied. “Which would also sum up most of his traits. Not to mention his… berth-hopping.” 

“That’s one way to call it.” Mirage sighed. “Look, Prowl, Jazz is a good mech. He is also highly social and loves interfacing. For him it’s like your need to be dominated in berth to have a respite from your control-freak-yness.” Prowl twitched uncomfortably at having one of his most hated traits put into glyphs and the blue and white mech scoffed. “I know you and I have _been_ the one to dominate you several times if you don’t remember. Anyways, interfacing for Jazz is something he needs, so don’t think of him as a whore because of that.” He hesitated. “Jazz is one of the best mechs I know.” 

The Praxian ran a venting cycle. “I know. He is very nice and attentive, but answer me one question: Has he, in all the time you have known him, ever been in a serious relationship?” Mirage stilled. “That is what I thought. And since you know me…”

“You don’t do casual or flings.” Mirage sighed. “Well, maybe you’ll make an exception for him, because let me tell you, _he is that good in berth_.” Prowl came to a halt and stared at the Crystal City mech with wide optics. The blue and white noble heated up and looked away. “He is a very close friend and I was at a bad place and he took care of me, and I wanted to thank him without saying, you know, _thank you_ , so, I – well…”

Prowl burst out laughing. He could feel tears running down his face and his engine hiccupping as he laughed harder than he couldn’t even remember when. Trust Mirage to break his own words ( _”I would never, ever let a commoner or anyone else than an Iaconian, Vosian, Praxian or Crystal City mech touch me!”_ ) only to not say _thank you_. 

“Ah, Mirage, you are _precious_.” Prowl giggled. He wiped away his tears, ignored his still hiccupping engine and smirked at his friend. “Thank you, for cheering me up.” He palmed the door to his quarters open and wiggled his wings teasingly. “I wish you a good dark-cycle, old friend.”

Mirage flipped him off. “Good dark-cycle to you as well.” He grumbled, but he winked before he left.

Lips twitching with amusement, Prowl watched him go, then turned to enter his quarters.

***

Three quartexes flew by unnoticed as Prowl immersed himself in work, and the war came to a stalemate – more or less. Prowl didn’t trust the peace and quiet, but didn’t worry too much about it. Unlike poor Red Alert, who ended up in Ratchet's tender care once every other orn because he glitched out over the calm Decepticons. 

The Autobots still held about two thirds of Cybertron, as well as every space port and bridge. Fortunately, otherwise the war would have spread beyond their home world to the colonies. According to Prowl’s calculations, the war would then be nigh unstoppable.

Autobot High Command was currently discussing if Optimus should visit Metroplex, a city on the border to Decepticon space. It would not only help to raise the spirit of the Metroplexians, but also help Optimus assess the situation on-site. On his way back he would deviate to Protihex and try to make the Decepticons back off, preferably 

“No!” Red Alert slapped the table, blue sparks frizzing from the horns on his helm. “It’s far too dangerous! We don’t know what the situation is like, and I don’t trust the Decepticons to hold this… whatever this is once they learn that Optimus is going on a… on a tour!”

“Which is why it is of utmost importance that no one outside of High Command learns about this.” Prowl replied calmly while Breakaway mouthed the glyph ‘tour’. “Not even the Senate. I will trust you with security, Red Alert.” He turned to Optimus. “Sir, I have already planned several routes, with you visiting other cities as well, either before or after. To make sure that all eventualities are covered, I would accompany yo–”

“The Pits you’ll do.” Ratchet growled. “You won’t leave this building.”

“Excuse me?” Prowl stared at the medic, his tone icy. 

Ratchet glared at him, unimpressed. “You heard me. You’re off duty from now on until your sparkling’s emerged.”

“No. I am carrying, not _ill_.” The tactician said, cold subglyphs making his tone even more menacing.

“But you’re still carrying. There’s another life inside you, and you’ve got to think about it, too. My processor’s made up, Prowl. You’re off duty until the only life you’re carrying around with you is your own, and my orders are final.” Ratchet’s optics softened. “I’m not doing this to make your life more difficult, but to do the best for you and your sparkling.”

Prowl looked around at the other members of High Command, but none of them would meet his gaze, not even Optimus and Jazz. Feeling a bit betrayed, the Praxian lowered his head and pressed his lips together. His doorwings, on the other servo, rose up high at an angry angle.

“Fine.” He stood up, chair scraping against the floor, making a few mechs of High Command cringe. Prowl didn’t even look at them as he left the room. A part of his processor told him that he was behaving like a youngling, but he couldn’t have cared less about it at that moment. His pedes automatically took him down a familiar pathway, one he could walk with his optics offline. Standing inside of his office, he then remembered that he couldn’t work, since he was _off duty_. With a swift motion, he grabbed his desk – and flipped it over.

Well, he had been lucky that there had been no datapads on the desk. He couldn’t help the smile that crept on his face. Flipping the desk had been quite therapeutic. Prowl bent forward, then froze. A tentative field touched his, emitting happiness and curiosity. Bliss filled Prowl’s own EMF as he recognized what had happened. He immediately engulfed his sparkling with love and his own happiness. One more quartex, and then he would hold his bitlet in his arms.

Prowl couldn’t wait for it.

***

Bee stared longingly at the entrance of the Prime Palace, spark spinning fast. This was it, he was going to join the Autobots. Since the destruction of Praxus, a quartex after his fourth upgrade, he had been trying to get here.

First, he had been delayed because he didn’t know how to escape the orphanage. Then he had been delayed because the recruiters had told him he was either too young or too Praxian ( _“You’ll thank me one orn, sweetie, those sensitive wings of yours are better suited for pleasure, not war.”_ ). But now, finally, he was where he wanted to be, and he really, really hoped that he would be accepted with the Autobots.

“Hey, you! Wha’re ya doin’ there?” A gruff voice called out, startling the yellow and black youngling. His wings jerked back and then up and down, conveying his surprise more visibly than his facial expressions. All Praxians learned some degree of control over their emotional responses, preferring to communicate with their wings. Though Bee had never been good in not expressing himself. Maybe this was because he was raised in Iacon and not rigid Praxus, even though he had spent a few solar-cycles each vorn in Praxus with his carrier on holidays before she had died.

“Hi.” Bee smiled after he had stopped staring at the big, red mech with awe. “I, uh, wanted to sign up for the Autobots.” Reminding himself to be polite, he added a hasty, “Please. Sir.” Maybe it was better if he just shut up.

Amusement shone from blue optics, and the red mech looked him over. “Well, this is quita good place. Come with me, sparklin’, we’ll find something fer ya.”

“I’m not a sparkling, I’m a youngling! And only seventy vorns from my mechling upgrades.” Bee protested, hurrying to keep up with the older mech.

His response only elicited a chuckle. “Compared t’ me ya’ll always be a sparklin’. ‘M Ironhide, by th’ way.”

“Bumblebee. But you can call me Bee.” Bee said. “Nice to meet you.”

“Hm, likewise.” He glanced at yellow and black doorwings. “I know jus’ th’ mech ya can talk t’.”

Bee didn’t know what to say and simply followed the red mech into the palace, where he was searched for weapons (silly, how could he have weapons if he wasn’t even able to regularly buy Energon for himself?). Then they walked through a maze of corridors, until they arrived in front of a nice bronze door with a mech holding the Matrix etched into it.

Ironhide rang, and it didn’t take long until they heard quick steps and laughter, and a muffled stern voice giving orders. Then the door opened, and a purple and orange youngling stood there, shy golden optics flitting from one mech to another. She was Praxian, Bumblebee noted, and his wings fluttered happily as he recognized his kin.

“Road Rage,” Ironhide greeted her with a smile. “Is your guardian here?”

She nodded and stepped aside, letting them into the room. It was the entrance to someone’s quarters, Bee noticed, and he looked around, trying to find out to whom they belonged. A mech suddenly appeared at their side, silent like a shadow, unlike any Bee had ever met. The mech had a red chevron pranging on his forehead above a stern face, and pristine white wings with Enforcer decals jutted proudly from his back. 

Bee’s optics widened and he gasped, taking a step back. This – This – He looked at Ironhide for help, before remembering that it was bad manners to ignore the High Lord, and he turned back. How did one behave when in the presence of Royalty?

“You – You’re L-Lord Prowl!” He stuttered, heat rushing to his faceplates. Primus, he sounded stupid! Also, last he knew, the monochrome Praxian had been kidnapped, together with his creation. Had the Autobots rescued him?

Blue, icy optics studied him, doorwings flickering in amused confirmation. Bee relaxed and his venting system kicked on again. Then the Lord turned to Ironhide, raising an optic ridge.

“Don’ look a’ me like tha’. Found ‘im outside, starin’ a’ HQ. Wants t’ join th’ Autobots.” The red mech shrugged. “Thought ya could talk t‘im, bein’ Praxian an’ all.”

The Lord remained completely still, even his doorwings didn’t move. Bee kind of envied him for his control. “Alright. Though we should look for his creators.” His cold optics glanced at Bee, and softened ever so slightly. “And inform Prime.”

Bee’s optics widened. The Prime? _Optimus Prime?_ Giddiness rose in his spark before he remembered what the Lord had said. “Uh, my creators died when I was a sparkling.” 

Prowl stilled. “I am sorry.” His wings wobbled and Bee flicked them in return. “Ironhide, take…”

“Bumblebee! But you can call me Bee.” Bee said and fluttered his wings.

The monochrome Praxian gave him a small upwards twitch of his lips. “Take Bee to Prime. He will decide what to do. I am on medical leave after all.” 

“Right, I f’rgot!” Ironhide grinned. Prowl shot him a dirty look, and Bee’s mind boggled. Logically he knew that the High Lord was a normal mech, more or less, but to actually see it… Ironhide saluted and Prowl closed the door. Bee turned his optics to Ironhide, and the red mech winked at him. “Let’s go, then, Prime’s waitin’.” 

Bee’s wings vibrated with excitement.

***

“You can just walk in and disturb the Prime?” Bee asked in awe as he tried to keep up with the large red mech. “Won’t he be mad?”

“Nah.” Ironhide winked at him and slowed down, allowing Bee to match his pace. “Prime’s th’ best mech ya’ll ever meet, promise.” A floor down, Ironhide stopped in front of a bronze door and knocked twice. 

There was a faint “Enter” and Ironhide opened the door. “Ya got time?” 

“Always.” 

The red mech grinned at Bee and beckoned him to follow him. Curious, and just a tad afraid, Bee entered the room. It was an office, the youngling noticed, and it was very tastefully decorated. At least in Bee’s opinion. There was an image of a red and gold youngling with flame decals on his chest on the shelf behind the – the – _oh, Primus_. Bee finally noticed the mech sitting behind the desk.

“Wow.” Bee said and gaped at him. He was tall and red and blue, and big and slender at the same time. He had funny fins on the side of his helm that twitched as Bee stared at them. When the youngling looked at the Prime’s face, he was smiling softly. 

“What can I do for you?” Prime asked. His voice was a deep, gentle rumble that put Bee at ease.

“Found ‘im outside, wanderin’ ‘round. Said he wanna join th’ ‘bots.” Ironhide jerked a thumb at Bee and grinned. “Prowl said ya should talk t’im.”

“Is that so?” Prime smiled and rose. And he got taller and taller and _taller_ and Bee took an involuntary step back. He hadn’t expected Prime to be so _tall_. A warm, big servo placed itself on Bee’s shoulder, and he looked up into Ironhide’s reassuring optics. A klik later, Prime had lowered himself onto a knee in front of Bee, his field engulfing the youngling with reassurance. “What’s your name, little one?”

“Bumblebee.” Bee mumbled. “But you can call me Bee.”

“You have a nice name, Bee.” Prime smiled. “I am Optimus. So, you want to join the Autobots?” 

Bee nodded.

“Aren’t you a bit young?”

Bee straightened and proudly spread his wings. “I am already two hundred and two vorns old. I’m not too young.”

“Of course not.” Optimus’ optics sparkled. “But you have to have had your final upgrade to sign up.” Bee’s wings wilted and Optimus put a servo beneath his chin to raise it. “Where are your creators?”

Bee shrugged. “Dead.”

“Oh.” Optimus blinked. “Where do you stay?”

“I don’t want to go back to the orphanage, please!” Bee’s wings quivered. 

“Why?” Optimus asked, voice gentle. 

Bee shrugged. “Don’t like it there.”

A soft expression entered the Prime’s optics. “I’m sorry to hear that, but–”

Ironhide reset his voicebox. “Actually, if you agree, Bee, you could stay with me and my bondmate.” He turned his optics to Optimus. “Chromi an’ I’ve been thinkin’ ‘bout adoptin’ since no matter wha’ we or Ratch tried got either of us sparked up, so we thought ‘bout… yeah. Adoption.” He scratched the back of his helm and smiled awkwardly at Bee. “So, if ya’gree, I’d like t’ introduce ya t’ m’bonded. See if ya like ‘er an’ if yaw anna stay.” He smirked. “I know Prime’d like t’ see ya ‘round.”

Bee looked from Ironhide to Optimus and back again. He opened his mouth to speak, but his vocaliser only clicked and he reset it, embarrassed. “I get to stay with you?”

“Yeah, if tha’s wha’ ya want.” Ironhide said. Not a klik later, he had a youngling pressed against his chestplate, right above his spark, little yellow and black wings quivering.

“Yes, please.” He whispered.

***

“…got that all? Any questions?” Ratchet crossed his arms on front of his chassis, daring the Praxian in front of him to say something. 

Prowl did his usual and didn’t move, not even the tiniest twitch of his doorwings as he processed the information Ratchet had provided him with. “No, everything was clear.” He replied. “What you just told me is very similar to what Bandage had me do when giving emerge to Smokescreen and Silvergrace.” He hesitated, and his left wing gave a minute tick upwards. “Do you already have the sparkling low-grade?”

Ratchet’s ever-present scowl eased into something soft. “I do. But as you well know, any Energon can easily be converted into sparkling low-grade, so there won’t be any problem with Energon shortage for your bitlet. But your creation won’t need for about for the first five vorns, since they’ll be feeing from ya.”

“I know.” Prowl murmured, doorwings drooping briefly before returning to their default position. “I simply worry.” 

Ratchet smiled softly at the Carrier. “Don’t. You’re in safe servos here.”

The tactician smiled, frame relaxing minutely. “I know. Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, some more about Prowl's relationship with Mirage - and Bee's showed up! What do you think? I just hope you're not too disappointed that he won't be really around until later...
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	9. Chapter 8: Bluestreak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “’Kay, how d’ya do tha’?”
> 
> Prowl waited for the saboteur to continue his question, but when it became apparent that he wouldn’t, he asked, “Do what?” 
> 
> “Lookin’ menacin’ when ya’ve got a sparklin’ attached t’ yer chest?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, at least I'm only a day late instead of a month. I'm trying^^
> 
> Thank you for all your comments and kudos, your support and feedback is the best motivation!!
> 
> Warnings: Jazz being Jazz

:: _Prowl!_ ::

The Praxian’s head jerked up at the unexpected comm. :: _Prowl here._ ::

:: _This is Blaster. Highstep’s down, and we don’t have any senior tactician to replace him. We need you down here at the Command Centre._ ::

:: _I will be there in five breems._ :: Prowl replied, then hurried out of his quarters. Ever since the battle near Protihex had started he had been prepared to take over, especially since several of his senior tacticians were lying in med bay. Optimus and his entourage – Prowl’s Second Highstep with him – had been in Protihex to assess the situation and visit their base there when the attack had happened. 

Unable to transform at this stage of carrying lest he risks harming the vulnerable protoform nestled in his gestational tank, Prowl ran down the corridors to the Command Centre. Blaster gave him a brief summary on the situation while he was on his way, and a small frown appeared on Prowl’s face. Megatron was leading the frontline with both Starscream and Soundwave suspiciously absent. Oh, well, Prowl would draw any vital information once he was connected with his console. He merely dipped his wings in greeting and immediately plugged in. His underused tactical system and battle simulator immediately powered up as they received the data, processing and finding solutions. After few nano-kliks, he started to bark commands at the troops.

About two joors later, the situation had calmed enough for Prowl to momentarily disengage and take a break. With the sparkling demanding most of his energy, tasks that once were as easy as venting were draining him like an intense diffusion training session. He turned to Jazz who was the highest-ranking mech. He had stayed behind since both Optimus and Ultra Magnus were out there in the field and they needed to have at least their TIC available in Iacon. Hopefully Jazz had some answers for Prowl. “What happened to Highstep?” He really wanted to know what incapacitated his Second.

“Was out in th’ open when th’ attack happened. Tried t’ coordinate everything from th’ battlefield, bu’ got shot down. Sorry tha’ we had t’call ya.” Jazz looked genuinely upset.

“It’s alright.” Prowl replied. “I actually enjoyed it; it has been too boring.”

He realized his mistake a klik later, but by then Jazz was already leaning in _so close_ … “Oh? Ya could’ve called me. I’m sure we’d’ve found some things t’ do t’ keep ya occupied.”

Prowl refused to be affected by the Polyhexian being right in his face. “Appreciated but unnecessary. Smokescreen, Mirage, Ratchet, Side Burn, Skids and the younglings kept me quite busy.”

“Hm.” Jazz leaned even closer, his lips just shy from touching Prowl’s, but the contact was there. The Praxian’s vents caught. “Not the way I would have entertained you.”

“And what if I am not interested?” Prowl asked softly.

Jazz tilted his head slightly, but did not pull back. “You are.”

“I am not.” Prowl whispered. But his traitorous doorwings fanned out and his field was filled with excitement. 

The saboteur smirked. “Sure y’ain’t.” And then he stole a chaste kiss. It was just the slightest brush of soft lips against his, but it was enough to send Prowl’s processor spinning. _Primus_. Why was it only that he reacted so strongly to this mech? Jazz was gone before Prowl was able to do anything but stare at him wide-opticked. “Shouldn’ ya be focusin’ on th’ battle?”

Prowl did not curse. He just didn’t. Only that after he had spoken, Autobot High Command was staring at him as if he had grown a second chevron. With burning faceplates, the tactician plugged in once more after having quickly drained a cube of Energon and continued commanding the battlefield. In the middle of a command, however, Prowl felt something he had hoped he would not feel today. He pushed the sensation aside –

He led a few Autobots to a power cell and ordered them to blow it up. They rigged it with explosives, and once they were at a safe distance, they blew it up. It obliterated a good portion of the Decepticon army, since the power cell had been behind the lines of the Decepticons. After that, victory belonged to the Autobots after about a joor, and Prowl gladly unplugged from his station.

“Ya were amazin’.” Jazz said, awe marking his glyphs with pleasant subharmonics.

“Thank you.” Prowl replied. “If you would call Ratchet now, or any medic, please, the sparkling is emerging.” Jazz’s visor flashed a bright, dumbfounded white. The Praxian looked at his expression and grimaced, helplessly at the sinking to the floor. Both of his servos came up to clench at his upper abdomen, trying to prevent the inevitable. “Patience, little one.” He panted through clenched dentae. After having had two sparklings, this emerge would be quite easy, but it still _hurt_ , and he didn’t want to have his sparkling in the Command Centre in front of Autobot High Command.

“Pharma’s on the way.” Blaster informed him, throwing an amused smile at the frozen TIC. The Polyhexian was still busy staring at Prowl, his EM field radiating a scrambled mash of undecipherable emotions.

“Thank you.” Prowl started, but the last syllable came out as a hiss as his sparkling bounced against his gestational tank. Strangely enough that sound got Jazz moving, and he knelt down next to Prowl. The saboteur took one white servo in his black one, and laced their fingers together.

“Vent.” Jazz commanded. “Ya’re gettin’ too warm.” His free servo wound around his back and supported Prowl from between his doorwings.

“Don’t touch me.” The Praxian protested weakly, but there was no bite in his voice. 

“Shut it, mech, ya gotta save yer strength fer wha’s comin’. An’ tha’s an order, m’Lord.”

Prowl wheezed out a keening sound. “You cannot order me around.”

“Watch me.” Jazz smirked. He suddenly turned his head. “Pharma’s here.”

Indeed, not a klik later, the red, blue and white Seeker entered, blue optics immediately going to the Praxian. “Jazz, get him into med bay, stat.” And with that, he turned around. The monochrome mechs stared after him, then Prowl keened again, and Jazz wasted no time to hurry after the medic. Luckily, the corridors were empty (curtesy of Red Alert, probably), which meant that they made it to med bay in no time at all.

It also meant that no one else was witness to the embarrassing way Prowl was carried to arrive at their destination. Jazz’s servos were under the tactician’s knees and below his doorwing joints, cradling Prowl close to his chassis. To hide himself from seeing where they were, Prowl buried his face in the Polyhexian’s neck. It was his deep consternation that he had to admit of biting the saboteur when his sparkling managed to make a rip in his gestational tank. Luckily, Jazz didn’t even so much as twitch.

Jazz gently laid the Praxian down on a berth, trailing his fingers down Prowl’s cheek. Prowl glared at him, even though he unconsciously leant into the touch. “Leave.” The tactician finally demanded.

“Ya shouldn’t be alone.” The Polyhexian replied stubbornly and Prowl groaned. 

“Send Side Burn. He was with me when – ahhhhh – when Smokescreen emerged.” Prowl said through gritted dentae and Jazz gave him a lopsided smile, mock-bowed and left.

***

Prowl smiled softly as he held Bluestreak in his arms. After a long orn spent in giving emerge to this tiny living being he was exhausted, but no matter how he felt, his creation was more than worth it. The small sparkling snuggled closer into his bumper and warmth bloomed in the monochrome Praxian’s chest. This right here was the reason why he had decided to keep the sparkling (at least it was one of the reasons).

There was a knock on the door and Prowl’s doorwings twitched as he debated whether or not to answer it, when he remembered that Smokescreen had told him that he would come by to meet his little brother. So, Prowl sent the command for the door to open, and his wings immediately caught his oldest creation’s familiar signature. 

He turned around with a gentle smile, calling out a soft greeting. “Smokescreen.”

The colourful Praxian’s doorwings trembled with anticipation and excitement. “Carrier.” He rocked on the tips of his pedes. “May I…?”

Prowl raised an optic ridge. “Once you have calmed down. You know the rules.” Smokescreen immediately froze. A small chuckle escaped the tactician’s lips and he then placed the sparkling into the cadet’s arms.

Smokescreen cooed and carefully rocked his little brother, adoration written all over his faceplate. “He looks a lot like you.” He commented, optics taking in the tiny chevron and the facial features of the for now unprotected protoform. It would take about a quartex for Bluestreak to grow his first armour.

“I only interfaced with Barricade _before_ the spark merge.” Prowl replied. “The more two mates interface, the more aspects of the sire the sparkling will take on.” It took transfluids to influence the sparkling’s appearance, but that was something Smokescreen should have already known. Spark merging was to create a bond between sire and creation, and to take off some strain from the carrier’s spark.

Smokescreen’s helm whipped up. “The more…” He hesitated. “Barricade’s colours are black and violet.”

“They haven’t always been.” The tactician shuttered his optics. “He used to have a golden chevron, like yours. His colours once were blue and white.” He onlined his optics and gave the cadet a sad smile. “You look quite a bit like him.”

“How often… Ugh.” Smokescreen shuddered, but his arms kept steady. “Not that I really want to know, but you’ve interfaced several times before he was banned and you were carrying me, haven’t you?”

Prowl’s lips twitched upwards. “We were in love, bitlet. If it would not have been for his standing, if it had not been for his association with the Decepticons, I would have bonded him.”

“Oh.” Smokescreen cleared his vocaliser and looked away. “That’s… sad, I guess.” His mouth curled downwards. “Was he the one?”

Prowl focused his optics on Bluestreak. “No.” He finally admitted. “But we would have been happy.”

Smokescreen nodded. “Good enough. I – I think I understand now why you wanted to keep Blue.” A frown appeared on his face plates. “Why did you call him Bluestreak, anyways?”

Prowl smiled sadly. “I decided to name him after my grandsire – my carrier’s sire. He was a great mech, but he died when grandcarrier was killed during a bank robbing gone wrong. I was a mechling when that happened.” Prowl gently stroked Smokescreen’s wings. “He was a great mech, he would – he would have loved you, no matter what.”

Smokescreen grinned before gently running a finger down Bluestreak’s cheek and a wave of grief came over Prowl. He swayed before regaining his equilibrium. There should be two more creations. He shuttered his optics at the thought of Silvergrace, and refused to think about the other, then vented his systems and forced himself to look at Smokescreen and Bluestreak. What had happened was in the past, there was no sense in dwelling there any longer.

He stepped forward and took Bluestreak. When he looked back to smile at Smokescreen, his oldest creation beamed at him, optics bright and doorwings trembling.

***

Smokescreen had just left to meet up with the Twins when there was once again a knock at the door. Prowl’s doorwings twitched, irritated. This was supposed to be the medical ward, filled with peace and quiet, not full of noisy bots. Also, Prowl was supposed to recharge after the long emerge and he for once even felt inclined to follow the medic’s orders. After contemplating his options, though, Prowl decided to open the door for whoever was there.

A mistake, he noted, as Autobot High Command tried to fit into the small room. The tactician watched with curious optics as they somehow _did_ manage that miraculous feat. Eleven optics (Mirage had come with High Command) and an optic band looked expectantly at him, and Prowl was standing in front of the crib, blocking the view of his sparkling. The Praxian crossed his arms, unaffected, and scowled at his colleges and superior.

“Oh, c’mon!” Jazz whined. “Please, let us see th’ sparklin’!”

“And I still have to check him over.” Ratchet said, but Prowl recognized the excuse for what it was.

Optimus raised an optic ridge, lips twitching with amusement. “Don’t make me make this an order.” He threatened playfully. For someone who was supposed to be wise and matured, he sometimes behaved like a youngling. There was an energon-crusted scar on the left side of the Prime’s faceplate, going from his right optic to where his battle mask would protect his face.

Prowl huffed a vent, then turned around, carefully gathering Bluestreak in his arms. He crooned his engine when he noticed that blue optics flickered sleepily at him. “Just sleep, little one.” He cooed. “These are just some very presumptuous, snotty mechs. Don’t pay them any attention, you will only encourage them.” He smirked at the flabbergasted looks on his visitors’ faceplates. “Is there something wrong?” He asked politely, rocking his sparkling in his arms.

“No.” Ratchet finally answered and stepped forward. “May I?” Prowl placed him in Ratchet’s arms without hesitation, fully trusting the medic. “What’s the sparklet’s name?”

“Bluestreak.” Prowl replied, a soft smile on his lips. 

“Bluestreak?” Mirage asked with a frown. “He hasn’t grown his armour yet, nor do you know his colours.” The Praxian simply gave him a mysterious smirk.

“Ah, well, keep yer secrets. Can I hold ‘im?” Jazz asked, rocking on the tips of his pedes. Prowl nodded at Ratchet, and after that, his newest creation was given from Autobot to Autobot, until Optimus ended up with the sparkling, which looked a bit ridiculous, since Bluestreak completely fitted into the Prime’s servos. 

More than one mech threw a bemused glance at their tall leader as he crooned his engine at Bluestreak, just as Prowl had done before, which was part of the carrier protocol. Which on its own wouldn’t have been that big of a revelation, because why shouldn’t the Matrix choose a carrier? No, the revealing fact was that those protocols only activated _after_ having carried a sparkling. Prowl filed that information away for later.

“Bluestreak’s one healthy little mech.” Ratchet finally announced, having received every test result he needed. “Congratulations.”

Prowl smiled, his field radiating pride. “Thank you.” His optics caught Jazz’s gaze. The saboteur was holding Bluestreak again, and it looked so _right_ , Prowl couldn’t explain it. He looked  
away, heat spreading over his faceplate as he remembered the kiss. His and Jazz’s first kiss. Prowl couldn’t help the tiny, soft smile grazing his lips.

***

Prowl arrived at the tactical unit at the same time as he always had before having noticed his carrying and started reading through the reports from the previous orn. He felt back into the familiar rhythm of signing of datapads and developing new strategies for the battles the Autobots currently fought or drafts for missions they were planning to do. Not even two joors passed when the regular shift started, and a servo on the Praxian’s arm jolted him out of his work. The monochrome looked up to meet Highstep’s optics.

“What are you doing here?” His Second asked.

Prowl’s left doorwing twitched ever so slightly. “Working.” He replied.

“You’re on medical leave, Prowl, you’ve just had a sparkling.”

The Praxian stared at him. “Yes, I just had a sparkling, not a disease. I am fit for work, as have I been after I had Smokescreen and Silvergrace.” He stared the mech, his temporary superior technically, down until he left. Prowl let his gaze wander over the other tacticians, then turned around and continued his work.

He had never been able to just patiently wait somewhere with nothing to do. Yes, he was patient, and yes, he was able to wait for a long time for something, but only if his processor was properly occupied. Mostly to not be bored, but also to not fall into loops and crash due to stress about being useless. Right now, Side Burn was watching his sparkling, and Prowl knew that he had left Bluestreak in good servos. Even though quite mischievous, Side Burn had always been nothing but considerate with sparklings – _especially_ Prowl’s.

It didn’t mean that Prowl didn’t miss his creation during work, since Bluestreak was only an orn old. However, as before, Prowl managed, and he knew he would feel better for it after work. Many wouldn’t understand, but he needed his work. 

Unfortunately, Ratchet did not agree with that.

***

Jazz didn’t know why Prowl had asked _him_ out of all mechs to watch over his creation as he caught up with some much-needed recharge, but he sure as pits wasn’t going to complain. That tiny sparkling was one adorable bundle of fluff. The saboteur could spend joors watching him – even if the mini-Prowl did nothing more than recharge. Primus, Bluestreak was even _more_ adorable when recharging, if that was even possible. 

Right now, the tiny Praxian was staring at his surrounding with wide, curious optics. He gave small, excited chirps every time a colourful vinylfinch flew by or landed on the window sims. They were currently in Jazz’s quarters that, unlike Prowl’s who lived in the previous apartment of the High Priest, were standard military officer’s quarters. He had a berthroom, a living room with a couch and an entertainment system, a small office (which had been remodelled into a music chamber) and private washracks. Okay, so Jazz’s quarters were bigger than standard, but he _was_ Third in Command of the Autobots, it should come with some benefits. 

Jazz was sitting on the couch of his living room, little Bluestreak on his lap. The mini-Prowl gave another happy string of chirps as a particular colourful vinylfinch landed on the window sims, and a tiny servo reached out to it. Jazz cooed at him, and the tiny stubs on Bluestreak’s back fluttered at the sound. _Primus_. If Prowl wouldn’t kill him with all his rejections, then this adorable sparkling would with all his fluffiness. 

Bluestreak beeped, this time clearly angry. He raised his servo again and squirmed in Jazz’s lap, trying to get closer to the mecha-avis. Jazz quickly cupped his own servos around the sparkling to keep him from moving too much. Bluestreak had yet to grow his armour, and until then his vulnerable protoform was prone to injury. 

The mini-Prowl gave a sparkbreaking whine, and Jazz exvented softly. “I’m sorry, lil’ Blue, bu’ ya can’t get any closer. Yer Carrier’s gonna eat me alive if anythin’ happens t’ ya.” Bluestreak cooed softly and Jazz gently caressed his cheek with one finger. “When ya’re older I’ll take ya mecha-aves watchin’.” Jazz promised. Then, he softly added, “…if there’s still some left, tha’ is. One ne’er knows with this war.” His grip on the sparkling tightened ever so slightly, as if to protect the little bit from the dangers of the real world.

***

Bluestreak was an easy sparkling. He recharged most of the orn, was never loud, and drank his Energon without a fuss. Which was why Prowl decided to take Bluestreak with him to work, when Ratchet cleared for desk work a quartex after the emerge. His sparkling had now grown his first armour, protecting him from ornly dangers. At first, Prowl had panicked at the grey colour Bluestreak had taken, until Ratchet had told him that his sparkling wasn’t dying. Getting over that shock, Prowl had been able to see the black and red accents all over his bitlet, and he had immediately felt embarrassed for overreacting.

With his creation safely magnetised to his chest, he was able to work through the giant mountain of datapads he had inherited from Ultra Magnus. Not that it was Magnus’ fault that the mountain was this high. 

About two joors into his shift, a knock interrupted Prowl in his work. After contemplating to ignore the door and continue his work (he was technically off-duty), he sent the command for the doors to open. Optimus and Jazz were standing there, and both immediately looked at the sparkling on Prowl’s chest.

“Awww.” Jazz cooed. “If th’ bots’d be able t’ see ya now, they’d ne’er be ‘fraid o’ ya e’er ‘gain.”

“Which is why no one knows I am in my office.” Prowl replied nonchalantly. “Was there something you needed?”

“No, I merely wanted to make sure Ultra Magnus explained what you have to do as Head Tactician once you return to being fully on duty.” Optimus said.

Prowl narrowed his optics at him. “Ratchet sent you, didn’t he?”

Jazz snickered at the Prime’s expression. “Caught ya. Anyways, OP, _I_ do have somethin’ t’ talk with Prowler here, so d’ya mind leavin’?”

“Of course.” The tall mech’s lips twitched with amusement. “I will leave you to it and report to Ratchet. I mean, go talk to him.”

The two black and whites stared after him, one with a wide grin, the other one with a more subdued smile. Then Jazz turned around and entered the office, sobering Prowl up. He could still remember how Jazz carried him to medbay as Bluestreak had been emerging, gentle and caring. And the sight of Bluestreak in the saboteur’s arms, as if he belonged there –

Prowl cycled his vents. He was confused because of his carrier protocols, which were fully active right now. Of course he would latch onto someone to be the sire for his sparkling. _But why Jazz?_ Prowl pushed the thought aside and straightened in his seat. “What do you want?” He asked, voice carefully neutral.

Jazz flashed him a bright grin and flopped down on a chair. “How’re ya?”

“Good, thank you.”

“An’ lil’ Blue?”

Prowl glanced at his recharging sparkling, smiling fondly. “Quite fine, thank you.”

“Great!” Jazz lifted his pedes and propped them onto Prowl’s desk. The Praxian glared at him and Jazz sighed, lowering them back to the ground. “’Kay, how d’ya do tha’?”

Prowl waited for the saboteur to continue his question, but when it became apparent that he wouldn’t, he asked, “Do what?” 

“Lookin’ menacin’ when ya’ve got a sparklin’ attached t’ yer chest?”

The tactician’s servo twitched, but he successfully supressed the urge to pinch his nose. “Are you merely here to distract me from my work?”

Jazz chuckled. “Nah, I do actually have somethin’ fer ya.” He unsubspaced a small package and placed it gently on the desk. “Found somethin’ in th’ ruins o’ Praxus an’ thought ya might like ‘em.” He fidgeted in his seat, and Prowl’s processor momentarily reeled at the unusual sight. The Polyhexian grinned and, after having quickly gained his composure back, nudged the package. “C’mon, open it!”

Prowl shot him a look, then took hold of the parcel and gently opened it. A gasp escaped his lips, and he raised disbelieving optics to the saboteur. Jazz had a satisfied smirk on his faceplates, and Prowl quickly looked away. Of course, this gift was for Jazz’s own goals. “Thank you.” said Prowl softly, nonetheless. It was good manners to thank someone for a present.

Though this gift… Inside the small casket sat five crystal seedlings, all in different colours. The first one on the right was a softly glowing icy blue one, long and slim. The second was a short and bulky red and blue crystal with golden flakes inside it. Next came a grey seedling that Prowl would have thought dead, had it not radiated an eerie silver light. The fourth was a bright orange crystal with a conical shape and the last one was a nondescript black one, but it glimmered when hit by the light at a certain angle.

And these weren’t just any crystals. Prowl supressed a whole-frame shiver.

It was tradition in Praxus that a courting mech gifted his beloved with crystals to convey his interest in bonding with them. But surely Jazz wouldn’t know the true meaning of the gesture. Especially since Prowl would not accept. First, he had just lost his bondmate (his mourning period was a vorn) and second, he was not interested in the saboteur. He wasn’t.

“’M glad ya like ‘em.” Jazz said softly, jolting Prowl out of his musing.

He smiled at the saboteur and gently closed the casket. “I do, very much so. I will plant them as soon as I am finished with my shift.” He hesitated. Jazz didn’t know the meaning of this, so there was no harm in asking, was there? “Would you like to join me?”

Jazz’s whole face lit up, literally in the case of his visor. “I’d love t’.” 

Prowl opened his mouth to reply, but a soft click stopped him. He looked down to his creation, meeting sleepily blinking optics. His engine immediately started to purr, and Bluestreak cooed softly, snuggling his head into Prowl’s chest. The tiny stubs that would one day grow into proud doorwings shivered happily, eliciting a tender smile on Prowl’s lips.

Bluestreak warbled, and his carrier chuckled softly. “Alright, time for you to get some Energon, little one.” He demagnetised the sparkling from his chest and held him in his left arm, then initiated a small transformation of the tip of his right index, exposing an Energon line. Hen held it to Bluestreak’s mouth and the sparkling immediately latched onto the line, suckling happily. Prowl crooned his engine at him and watched him with a soft expression in his optics. He was never able to properly describe the feeling of deep, deep love, fierce protectiveness and pride whenever he looked at one of his creations.

A soft sound reminded him that he wasn’t alone in his office, and he looked up. Jazz met his gaze with a bright visor and a gentle smile. Prowl could feel the heat rushing to his face and he looked down again, cradling Bluestreak closer.

“Ya’re cute like this.” Jazz said softly, and his chair scraped across the floor as he stood up. Bluestreak stopped suckling to stare at the saboteur with wide optics. The Polyhexian cooed at him, then winked at Prowl. “See ya later, beautiful.” And then he sauntered out of the office.

Bluestreak trilled sadly, and Prowl sighed deeply, venting his systems. “I am sad to see him leave as well. But it has to be.” He held his finger to his creation, and the sparkling immediately continued suckling.

***

Prowl tried his best not to fidget as he waited for Jazz, but he couldn’t help himself. The saboteur made him feel uneasy (in a spark-clenching kind of way), and he usually reacted very… _explosively_ to the Polyhexian. Bluestreak was currently recharging in his crib, so there was no way to distract himself with his creation. Smokescreen was still at the Academy, and Road Rage was currently at school.

“I can’t actually remember the last time you were this restless.” Prowl whirled around, coming face to face with his brother. Side Burn was leaning against the door frame, arms crossed, giving the older Praxian a contemplating look. “Must have been before I emerged.”

“That is not true.” Prowl replied, doorwings going back from their twitching to their neutral position. “I was quite restless when I told you and our creators when Barricade sparked me up the first time.”

Side Burn’s optics went blank, then he chuckled and focused them on his brother. “Right, I remember. You were extremely fidgety and defensive.” He pushed off the wall. “So, what got your pipes in a twist now?”

Prowl sighed. “Nothing, just… Jazz.” 

“Nothing, eh?” Side Burn snickered at the glower Prowl gave him. “Alright, alright. What did our favourite Polyhexian do now?” Prowl fapped his wings once, then unsubspaced the small casket and gave it Side Burn. The blue and white mech’s optics widened in surprise as he stared at the contents. Then he turned to look at Prowl, teeking of shock. “He – how?”

“I am assuming he is ignorant to our customs, but with Jazz one never knows.” Prowl exvented. “I invited him to help me plant them and am currently waiting for him to show up.” The monochrome mech wrung his servos. “Primus, what was I thinking?”

Black servos took hold of his, and Prowl looked up into his brother’s red optics. “You know you don’t have to do this, right? I don’t think Jazz will be mad at you if you tell him that you’ve changed your mind. And this is just the two of you planting crystals, nothing more.” Side Burn smiled gently. “No need to freak out.”

Prowl forced his ventilation to slow, then shook his helm. “I am the older sibling.” He said softly, giving Side Burn a hint of a smile. “You should not have to comfort me.” 

“You just lost your bondmate, Prowl.” Side Burn replied. “You’re bound to be emotionally unstable.” He hesitated. “Go see a therapist, please. Not talking about this, about Silvergrace, it’s not good for you. You gave Smokescreen that advice, but are not doing it yourself. Why?” 

“Advice is given far more easily than taken.” Prowl sighed deeply. “Though I did go to a few sessions with Rung.” Side Burn gave him a _look_ and Prowl huffed. “I will try my best. Primus knows Ratchet will only have me working half-time for the next stellar-cycle. As if we aren’t in the middle of a war.”

“The Autobots survived just fine without you.” Side Burn chuckled. “They’ll survive another solar-cycle just as fine.”

Prowl slapped his brother with his wings, when the door suddenly opened. Jazz was standing in the open doorway, an amused smile tugging at his lips. “I hope I ain’t interruptin’ anythin’.”

“No,” Side Burn said with a grin, “You aren’t. I was just leaving, anyway. Got a hot date with one of the femmes here. Gorgeous red plating and legs to die for.” He winked at Prowl. “Have fun.” 

Prowl fought down the urge to face-palm, then turned to Jazz with a small smile. “Hello, Jazz. Please, come in.” 

“Thanks.” Jazz entered, looking around. “Where’s th’ lil’ bit?” 

“Recharging.” Prowl replied, amused. “If you are here only to see him, I must disappoint you.”

The Polyhexian chuckled. “As if. We both know who I’m really here fer.” He touched the Praxian’s arm with his servo, a barely-there brush. 

Prowl froze, venting suddenly became hard. “Jazz,” he whispered. “Please. Don’t.”

“Ya know ya’re allowed t’ feel?” Jazz asked, stepping closer.

The Lord lifted his helm, finding himself closer to Jazz than he had thought. Their lips would touch if he leaned in the tiniest bit. “I know. But I lost Strider only a stellar-cycle ago and gave emerge to Bluestreak last quartex. I cannot deal with this right now.”

Jazz reached up and cupped Prowl’s face, optic band dimming. “Can’t deal with it righ’ now, or e’er? ‘Cause I know ya’re stubborn like tha’.” 

Prowl chortled and leaned into the touch. It was comforting, and Prowl wished that he could accept this, but – he couldn’t. Yes, Prowl felt inexplicitly drawn to the mischievous Polyhexian, and that was partly the reason he feared to have something _more_ with him. “I–I do not know.” He pulled away and spread his wings. “But, Jazz, I have an offer for you – or a favour to ask from you, depending on how you take it. I do not wish for Bluestreak to grow up without a Sire. And you, you have already shown that you care, and–”

Jazz shut him up with a chaste kiss. Just as their first one, it was chaste, light and reverant and Prowl felt like the most precious thing in the universe. It was also entirely to long and not long enough. “It’d be m’honour.” Jazz murmured against his lips before pulling back. He motioned towards the casket sitting innocently on the table. “Shall we?” 

“Yes.” Prowl took the offered black servo with his own white one, and led his fellow officer to the window of the living room, where he had already prepared a small pot and minerals. 

“Ain’t tha’ pot, I dunno, too small?” Jazz asked.

Prowl smiled at him. “Not yet. In one or two vorn, yes, I will have to replant them. You may help then as well, if you wish.”

“An’ why not put’em in a bigger pot in th’ firs’ place?” 

“Because they need a smaller pot for now, if I wish for them to harmonize when they are bigger.” He shot the saboteur a look. “You are a musician, are you not?” 

Jazz tilted his helm. “Ya, why?”

Prowl smirked, and put the grey crystal into the soil. “Sing a note.” 

Jazz stared at him, then hummed. The crystal started to vibrate, and as Jazz continued his hum and changed the pitch, it gave a soft, high note. Jazz stopped, surprise written all over his faceplate. Then, with a broad smile on his lips, he started again, singing a set of tunes. The crystal responded to his music, changing its pitch as Jazz changed his notes. “Singing Crystals.” The Polyhexian eventually murmured, then looked at the tactician. “Lord Prowl of the Singing Crystals.”

Prowl inclined his head. “Our House prided itself in their vast collection of Singing Crystals. And all of us seemed to have inherited the ability of arranging those particular crystals in a way that the melodies they emit are of pure sound and very pleasing.” His lips twitched. “Imagine my surprise when I noticed that you not only gifted me with five crystals, but five _Singing_ ones.” 

Jazz chuckled softly. “Lucky finds, I guess.” 

“Lucky indeed.” Prowl stared contemplatively at the soil, then carefully planted each crystal into a specific place. “Try them.”

Jazz hummed, and they gave an otherworldly and reverential melody. “Primus.” Jazz breathed. He turned to Prowl, a serious expression on his face. “Thank you, fer sharin’ this with me.” 

Prowl ducked his helm, suddenly feeling shy, and brushed away a few crumbs of soil. “Anytime. I trust you will find the way out?” 

A soft chuckle, and Jazz rose to his pedes. “I think I will. See ya later, Prowler.” He left, and the quarters suddenly felt so much emptier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bluestreak's here! And some fluff with him. I love him very much, especially in the role as Prowl's creation^^
> 
> Next chapter will hopefully be up in two weeks, and we'll get a giant hint on Prowl's fourth creation as well as sniplets on Blue growing up. This story is - unfortunately - not about sparkling Blue and fluff (right, Blurr?) and for the plot to move along, I need him to be a youngling. 
> 
> I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter and stayed safe at home while reading this;)


	10. Chapter 9: Too Close

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was couldn’t allow himself a distraction, and he couldn’t allow himself to become even more vulnerable than he already was through his ties with his creations.
> 
> But mainly, Prowl was afraid of his reactions to that mech.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely happy with this chapter, it kind of feels off? But it's also needed to move the plot along and Blue needs to be older for that.
> 
> As always, thank you so much for your kudos and support, you guys are the best <3

_“So, did I hear that right? You want me to give you the daggers your carrier explicitly ordered me to destroy?”_

_“That’s High Lord Silverstreak to you.” Prowl replied and crossed his arms beneath his bumper. His elegant wings rose in indignation as he frowned at the purple and green mech with the white faceplate. “Show some respect for your Lord and Master.”_

_The mech huffed. “Yes, yes. I’m supposed to pay deference to your carrier – I’m sorry, to_ High Lord Silverstreak, _– but you want me to openly defy him as well?”_

_“I am asking you to do me a favour, not defy Lord Silverstreak, especially not openly.” Prowl replied._

_“Hm.” The purple mech’s red optics flashed and he transformed his mask away to reveal a smirk. “A favour, huh?” He stepped closer and closer until he was right in Prowl’s face, but the Praxian refused to move. “And I’m supposed to do that just out of the goodness of my spark?”_

_“Yes.” Prowl replied. “I am the Prince after all.”_

_“Right.” The mech chuckled softly. “I don’t think so.” He lifted a servo to forestall any protests. “But I would be willing to tell the High Lord that those daggers have been disposed of and secretly give them to you for a favour in exchange.”_

_Blue optics narrowed as they locked with red ones. “What do you want?”_

_Mesothulas grinned and placed a servo over Prowl’s chestplate, blatantly ignoring the Praxian’s glare. “Nothing much, Prince Prowl, just a little contribution on your side.”_

***

It all started with Bluestreak having a system upset. The sparkling woke Prowl, Road Rage and Smokescreen in the middle of their recharge cycle, and while the Lord had sent his creation and ward back to berth, he himself had stayed up to care for his sparkling. Unfortunately, Bluestreak had not calmed down, and Prowl had gone to see Lifeline, the medic on duty.

The medic had quickly calmed Prowl down and told him that it was nothing severe, Bluestreak just needed help to start an extra defrag cycle. And while his creation had fallen back into recharge, Prowl had found himself unable to follow his example. He stayed awake and familiarised himself with the battle tactics of Ultra Magnus’ unit and those of the Wreckers. 

He had used his time off duty to read up on the Decepticons and other Autobots, and the Chief Defence Officer and Leader of the Wreckers was the only mech missing. Prowl had already noticed an improvement of sixty-seven percent concerning the planning and improvisation on-field after having familiarised himself with other tacticians or their commanding officer’s tactical style. Victories were achieved quicker and with less casualties. 

Then the time for waking up his creations and ward had come. Smokescreen had refused to get up, citing that his lectures wouldn’t start until much later, and Prowl had allowed him to sleep in for once. Road Rage, after having heard that Smokescreen was still in his berth, insisted on going back to recharge as well, but her classes did start in the morning, so the small femme sulked at the table. She refused her morning ratio, and Prowl didn’t even bother persuading her to drink it. Road Rage wanted to get back at him for waking her up? Fine, let her see the consequence for not being fuelled sufficiently. He had already run scenarios through his tactical systems if it would harm her permanently, but all results came back negative. This would be a good lesson for her, it had worked with Smokescreen after all.

Prowl had fetched Bluestreak, who had still been in recharge and magnetised him to his chest. He would take his sparkling to his office, work until midorn when he would take a break and meat up with his brother, who would take his creation and watch over him for the reminder of the orn. Prowl had beckoned Road Rage to follow him, and brought her to her school, which was directly next to the Autobot Academy, about a fifteen breems walk from HQ. Road Rage had still been sulking. 

As he had walked to his office, Bluestreak had woken up and whined softly. It had been soft, but loud enough for the mechs around him to hear it. They had immediately fawned over the sparkling, which had upset both the tactician and his creation. Prowl had only reached the peace and quiet of his officer after having punished those intrusive mechs to scrubbing the outer walls of Autobot HQ. By the time he had reached his office, though, Bluestreak had been so distressed that the Praxian had to spend half a joor to calm him down. 

Prowl had had a few quiet joors until he met up with Side Burn. His brother had teased him about Jazz, but fortunately ceased once Prowl had flared his doorwings in annoyance. Side Burn had taken Bluestreak after lunch, but instead of working in quiet, several mechs had come to complain about other bots, who came at a later point to rant as well. Even though Prowl was _technically_ on medically ordered desk duty. 

The processor ache had been slowly building up throughout the orn, so when it finally made itself known, it came with no surprise. But what _was_ concerning was the crash that he could feel coming up. With everything that had happened, Prowl was in need of a nice defrag and some alone time, but there had been too much going on for him the last few decaorns to initiate a defrag cycle. Deciding to leave his office on time for once, the tactician went to his quarters. 

He encountered Jazz on his way, accompanied by Mirage, Hound and his SIC Arcee (who must have been of Praxian descent, going by the doorwinglets on her back), Springer, Second of the Wreckers and one of Ultra Magnus’ SICs, and Breakaway, the Commander of the Autobot Air Force.

The Polyhexian immediately started to swing his hips alluringly, an enticing smirk on his handsome face. His change in demeanour caused his entourage to either hide their reactions or exchange indulgent smiles. 

“Gentlebots.” Prowl greeted them with a flick of his wings. While his optics kept cycling back to Jazz and his (admittingly working) seduction, he couldn’t help but stare at the Second of the Wreckers. It was the first time he was seeing him in person, and despite all the reading he had done about Springer, he would never even have imagined who he could be. But it _had_ to be, he was the spitting image of… No. Prowl refused to think of _him_ and Ostaros was dead. Then why did his spark prickle every time he looked at the tall, green mech?

He suppressed a sigh. No matter how his spark was behaving, he was not going to investigate any further. Prowl would not go there again and he most certainly did not want to feel _that_ pain again. This was better left in the past. His optics fell on Springer once again and his spark prickled. _Right?_

The officers greeted him back, and Jazz leant into Prowl’s personal space. “Long time no see, Prowler.” He purred. It was true. Prowl hadn’t seen the saboteur for a few solar-cycles; the Head of Spec Ops had been doing some undercover mission in Decepticon territory. “I’ve heard ya’re still on medical leave?” 

“Yes, Ratchet has yet to clear me for active duty.” Prowl tried to move past the Polyhexian, but Jazz quickly took hold of his arm. The touch sent a sharp trail of pain to his processor, and Prowl refrained his doorwings from moving and the hiss from leaving his lips.

“C’mon, let’s catch up over some engex. Raj’s takin’ out his special brew.” Jazz grinned.

The blue and white noble raised a delicate brow. “I am?” Prowl wasn’t fooled, though, he knew that Mirage knew how Prowl was feeling right now, how close he was to crashing. 

“No, thank you.” Prowl replied and glared at the saboteur. “Please refrain from touching me. Now, if you excuse me, I need to go.” 

Jazz let go of him, face blank and field drawn in tight, but Prowl paid neither him nor any of the other officers any attention as he walked past them. He didn’t have the energy to deal with them, especially Jazz. His encounters with the Polyhexian tended to either turn explosive or emotional. At the next intersection, Prowl halted. His quarters were bound to be filled with loud mechs and femmes, and he would not get any rest for quite some time. He eyed the other way and gave a small flick of his wings, then started down the corridor.

***

Ratchet stared at Prowl. “What the frag are you doing in my med bay?”

Prowl just looked at him from his place on a medical berth, optics tired. “It’s quiet.” He said softly. “And unlike in my office or quarters, there is nothing that tempts me to work, nor mechs filing complaints.” The Praxian flopped back on the berth. “I felt a crash coming up, and thought this would be the best place to prevent it. If I am bothering you, I can leave as soon as I trust myself to reach my berth.”

“Don’t bother.” Ratchet huffed with a gruff tone. “Stay here. Just, be quiet, for goodness’ sake.”

Prowl hid a smile. Ratchet did care. The medic didn’t even complain when Prowl returned the next decaorn. Nor did he utter one single glyph when the Praxian returned time and time again over the next quartex, which turned into quartexes, and then vorns.

***

Prowl woke up still in medbay the next morning, feeling refreshed and full of energy. Maybe he should recharge here more often. He sat up and stretched his arms and doorwings luxuriously. 

“Well, well, look who’s finally decided to grace us with his presence. Lazybots, the lot of you.” 

The Praxian looked up at Ratchet’s grumpy voice and his lips curled into a small smirk. “Jealousy does not become you, Ratchet.”

The medic grumbled, then pointed at the door of the room. “Be gone! You’re no longer in need of medical help, so get out of my sight.” 

Prowl chuckled. “As you command, medic.” He slipped off the berth, expression becoming serious. “I thank you for letting me stay. It has helped me.”

“You’re welcome.” And though the tone was gruff, Ratchet’s optics had gentled and there was a soft upwards curve to his lips. “Oh, and I should warn you that Jazz is in a bad mood, and subsequently the other bots as well.” 

Prowl thought about his brusque dismissal of the Polyhexian and nearly winced. “Thank you for the warning. Have a nice orn.” 

“Nice orn. Puh-lease. I’ll get a nice orn once I’m in the Well since there always seem to be stupid mechs everywhere.” Prowl heard Ratchet grumble, then he was gone from the medic’s territory. He went to his quarters to reassure himself that chaos had not erupted from his absence, but there was no need to worry. Side Burn was writing a report, Bluestreak in his lap. 

“Prowl! Good to see you. Did you have another last breem mission to plan?” Side Burn carefully took Bluestreak into his servos after having put the datapad aside, and rose to greet his brother. 

Prowl smiled at him and reached for his creation, cradling him close. The sparkling burrowed his faceplate into his Carrier’s chest and his engine purred happily. The smile deepened, and the tactician watched his creation for a while, then turned to the red opticked mech. “No, I had not. I spent the night in medbay to prevent a crash from happening. I feel better now.” He quickly added. “Thank you for watching over them.”

“Anytime, big brother.” He went to the Energon dispenser. “Care for a cube?” 

“To takeaway, please. There are some matters I need to address and work to do. Do you mind watching Bluestreak for the orn?”

Side Burn grinned. “Not at all. Taking care of my cute nephew is hardly any, well, hardship.” He offered Prowl a filled cube and accepted the sparkling from his brother. 

“Thank you. Until tonight.” 

“See you later. And don’t work too much! You’re still on medical leave, after all!” 

Prowl flickered his doorwings at him, then left his quarters. He pinged Red Alert for Jazz’s whereabouts and grimaced. Of course the Polyhexian was in the rec room. Prowl detested that place with his whole spark (it was far too crowded and loud), but if he wanted to apologize to the saboteur, he would have to swallow his reluctance and uncomfortableness. 

Jazz spent a lot of time in the rec room, especially lifting the mood of his fellow Autobots with music. The rec room didn’t have any permanent instruments, but Jazz had more than enough in his quarters as he had once told Prowl when asked about where he found all those instruments. 

This orn he wasn’t playing, he was sitting at a table with a few other mechs, playing cards. Several conversations quietened when the bots saw Prowl enter, and soon enough, the whole room was silent. When the Praxian came to the rec room, it usually meant that the Tactician was looking for a mech to reprimand, and that unlucky mech more often than not disappeared for several orns until his punishment had been fulfilled. No one looked forward to Prowl showing his faceplate at the rec room.

The tactician sighed and stepped towards the table where Jazz was. “General, a glyph?” He said softly, trying to ignore the stares he was getting from the present Autobots. Jazz’s visor was an unreadable neutral blue, as was the set of his jaw and his posture in general. The silence dragged on, and Prowl wondered if he was about to get rejected in front of all these mechs. But, finally, the saboteur shrugged and rose, helm tilted in question. 

Prowl nodded at the bots sitting at the table, then turned around and led Jazz to a small and usually unused conference room. When he turned to speak up, the glyphs died in his vocaliser. The Polyhexian was standing there with a bored expression on his faceplate, arms crossed. Prowl had never seen this side of Jazz, or at least had never seen it directed at _him_. 

He reset his vocaliser and shifted slightly, optics meeting blue visor. “I wish to apologise for my behaviour yesterorn. It had not been my intention to brush you off in an insulting manner, as it might have appeared. Rather, I had been stressed and at the verge of crashing. Adding more information to my systems and given my reactions towards you, a crash in the middle of the hallway in front of our subordinates was a possible risk that I did not want to happen.” He paused, then lowered his wings in apology. “If I have hurt you in any manner, I deeply regret it.” 

Jazz merely continued to stare at him, not giving away even the slightest hint about how he might feel. Prowl waited, uncertain. Was he supposed to do something else? Had he forgotten something? Was the apology not adequate? The tactician was rarely wrong, so apologising for his actions was a rare situation, especially considering his status as the Heir to the Praxian throne. Royalty didn’t apologize. He was no expert in this and lacking several important variables. 

The silence dragged on, and Prowl was about to add another apology about disturbing Jazz and wasting his time, when the Polyhexian huffed out some air and uncrossed his arms. His posture relaxed, and the visor brightened a bit. “Ya were kinda rude.” He raised a servo to forestall any apology Prowl was about to offer. “Bu’ this was one pit of an apology, so ya’re forgiven. A lil’ bit.” A smirk tugged at his lips, and Prowl’s doorwings sagged the tiniest bit with relieve. 

“A little bit is better than nothing.” He said.

Jazz chuckled and stepped up to him, black servos trailing down white arms. “How ‘bout this: You, me, Burn an’ ‘Raj, catchin’ up o’er some good high-grade?” There was a hopeful subglyph marking his sentence, and Prowl felt himself melting. 

“Alright. Tonight, half a joor after my shift. Do not be late; tardiness is not well received amongst high nobility.” The corners of his lips curled upward ever so slightly, and Jazz laughed. 

“Fine, I won’ be late.” Then he leant forward and pressed his mouth against Prowl’s. His glossa pushed past lips slack with surprise, brutal in its determination to map the Praxian’s oral cavitiy. The kiss lasted only a few kliks before Jazz was gone, leaving Prowl alone in the conference room, thoroughly claimed. The Praxian’s fans were spinning wildly, and his optics were wide with shock at the blatant disregard of personal boundaries or social rules. 

Jazz had kissed him. No, scratch that. Jazz had _claimed_ him with a possessive kiss, in an unlocked room where anyone could have walked in on them. Prowl licked his still tingling lips and consciously slowed his venting, trying to regain his posture. Primus. If this was his reaction after a short kiss… He shuddered. He needed to stay away from the Polyhexian. Prowl couldn’t afford to lose control.

***

Prowl glared at the stack of datapads to his right. Ratchet had finally, _finally_ , cleared him for active duty at full hours and Prowl had been ecstatic to be able to return to work. To be able to fullfill his function. But now, four joors after the official end of his first shift, he was still sitting behind his desk working on filling out datapads other officers had submitted to him because they were incomplete. More than half of them were Jazz’s. 

The Praxian absentmindedly tapped his stylus against his desk as he thought before he gave a decisive nod. He made a comm call, then set out to wait. Not ten breems later, Jazz waltzed into his office, a wide smirk on his face. 

“Why, Prowler, can’t have ‘nough o’ me?” He asked as he made an acrobatic move while sitting down in front of Prowl’s desk.

“On the contrary.” Prowl replied unmoved and placed one of Jazz’s datapads on the desk. “What is this?”

Bemused, Jazz frowned. “A datapad?”

“No, this is half a joor more work for me.” Prowl pointed at the stack to his right. “Those are another eight joors more work.” He stabbed at the stack to his left with his stylus. “Those were four joors. All of that is extra work for me, because most of you think it is alright to not fill out the datapads correctly since _‘Prowl’s gonna do it anyways, that stylus pusher doesn’t have anything important to do’_.” Prowl glared at Jazz. “Well, I do have better things to do, like being with my creations. And believe it or not, I would really like leaving my office at regular joors while Bluestreak is still a sparkling. But I cannot because I am busy doing work that, actually, is not mine to do.” He vented and handed Jazz his stack of datapads. “Now, fill these out and do not return them until you completed them, otherwise I will make sure that you will only see the inside of your office for the next hektavorn. Am I understood?” 

“Yes, sir.” Jazz replied so flabbergasted that Prowl nearly took pity on him. Nearly.

“Good.” Prowl remotely opened the door to his office. “You may relay this to your fellow officers. Now leave.” 

Jazz actually saluted before fleeing Prowl’s office, and the Praxian smiled. Two more datapads and he would finally be able to join his creations.

***

“’M tellin’ ya, Prime, he’s really scary if he wanna be!” Jazz whined as he flopped down on the chair in front of Optimus’ desk, a stack of datapads in his lab. “An’ he’s makin’ me do datapads, an’ I hate doin’em!”

Optimus chuckled at his friend and petted his servo. “There, there, all better now.” His smile widened at the withering glare the saboteur threw at him. “How scary would you say he is? Scary enough to hold even the more stubborn and mischievous bots in line?”

“Probably.” Jazz grumbled before jerking up. “Don’t ya dare…”

The Prime beamed at his third in command and friend. “I think Prowl would make an excellent Second, don’t you? And he would be great at keeping my soldiers in line.”

“I hate ya.” Jazz sagged back into his chair with a whine. “I hate ya so much.”

***

“…an’ tha’s how yer Carrier an’ I met.” 

“Ohhh.” Bluestreak made big optics, and Jazz chuckled. 

“Always kickin’ m’ aft, since th’ beginnin’.” 

“Jazz, please refrain from corrupting my creation.” Prowl said sternly. His field teeked of amusement, however. 

Bluestreak clicked happily at Prowl and held out his arms. “Up.” He said.

Jazz and Prowl both froze. They looked at each other, then at the sparkling, then back at one another. “Did he just…” Prowl trailed off. Bluestreak whined, and his creator quickly lifted him. “I’m here, don’t worry.” He nuzzled the tiny red chevron with his own. “Did you just say ‘up’?” He asked. 

“Up.” Bluestreak chirped happily. Prowl laughed softly, then looked at Jazz, optics bright. 

“His firs’ glyph, eh?”

“Yes.” Prowl replied proudly. For a sparkling to talk at the age of fifty-two vorns was amazing. 

Jazz stood up and stood next to him, a servo coming up to caress Bluestreak’s cheek. “’M proud o’ ya, lil’ one.” He turned to the older Praxian. “When’s he due fer his firs’ upgrade?” 

“In three vorns.” Jazz’s expression fell. “I am sorry. But you can always be there for the next ones.” Prowl touched his arm.

“Yeah.” Jazz sighed. “Bu’ th’ firs’ one’s special.” He ex-vented heavily. “Stupid war with stupid missions.” 

“We wouldn’t have met if not for the war.” Prowl pressed his lips together. He hadn’t meant to say that.

Jazz’s head snapped up sharply, and he scrutinized the Praxian with a thoughtful field. “True.” He stepped away and stretched, struts cracking. “Well, I gotta go an’ prepare fer th’ mission. Be safe, Prowler.” 

Prowl gave him a shy smile. “Always.”

***

Bluestreak hid behind Prowl’s leg. It was kind of cute, but also kind of sad, and Jazz’s spark clenched with something akin to pain at the sight. The mini-Prowl, _his_ creation, was hiding from him. Eight vorns were a long time for sparklings, and Jazz was made painfully aware of that fact right now. But despite how much he wanted to scoop the tiny Praxian up, he turned to Optimus with a lazy salute. 

“Reportin’ back fer duty, Prime.” He threw a small datachip at him, and the Iaconian caught it easily. “Shocker’s lab is nothin’ more than dust in Polyhex an’ tha’s Straxus’ informant.” Optimus opticked the chip with suspicion and Jazz laughed. “Nah, not tha’. It has his name and info, th’ informant is still in Altihex. I’ll send ‘Raj after ‘im.” He looked at the mech in question, and the blue and white noble gave a curt nod.

Optimus chuckled. “Very well. Good job, soldier, and welcome back. You were missed.” His cyan optics sparkling with mirth, and he turned away. “Commander,” And fraggit all, Optimus had made Prowl his Second while Jazz had been absent, apparently, “I trust you will brief General Jazz on everything he missed?” 

“Yes, sir.” Prowl replied with a bow of his wings, and Optimus and Ironhide left. 

Mirage looked at Jazz. “It’s good to have you back. I will fill you in about what happened in Spec Ops tomorrow when you come for your shift.” 

Jazz lifted an optic ridge (not that anyone could see that with his visor on) and turned to Prowl. “Already on duty?” 

The Praxian returned his gaze calmly. “You had more than enough time to relax during your extraction in Kalis.”

“Fine.” He turned to his Second. “See ya tomorrow, ‘Raj.” 

The corners of lush white lips twitched upwards, and the Towers mechs turned away and left with swift, elegant steps. Jazz looked after him with an amused smile, then turned to Prowl. Bluestreak was still hiding behind black-and-white legs. The Polyhexian crouched down and smiled gently. “Hey there, lil’ one.” He cooed. “Remember me?”

Bluestreak looked startled and pressed himself closer to his Carrier’s leg. Prowl sighed and unclenched the small fingers clawing into a gap in his calf armour. “We talked about this, Bluestreak. This is Jazz, your Sire.” 

Warmth spread through Jazz at those words, and he smiled warmly at the sparkling. Bluestreak looked a bit lost when Prowl gently pushed him in front of his leg, and embarrassment blushed through his field. He knotted his fingers together and looked down, his whole frame heating up. 

“Ya’ve grown a lot, ya know? Th’ las’ time I saw ya, ya were tiny. Glad t’ see ya’re taller now.” He winked at Bluestreak, and blue optics rounded at the sight of a visor winking. “Bu’ don’ grow too much, otherwise I won’t be able t’ carry ya ‘round anymore. Tha’ wouldn’ be any fun.”

Bluestreak giggled. Jazz smiled at him. The small Praxian was precious to him beyond glyphs, and he loved him like he only experienced twice before. Bluestreak swayed a bit, then stepped closer to Jazz. Brief hesitation, and then the mini-Prowl hugged him. Jazz’s field lit up with pleasure and happiness, and he wound his arms around the small frame. “Sire.” Bluestreak said softly, and Jazz melted.

***

“Why?” Bluestreak’s sparkbreaking voice was like a knife stabbing his internals. 

Jazz sighed and crouched down in front of his creation, gently cupping the grey helm. “’Cause I’m th’ best there is, an’ someone has t’ go an’ get things done.” 

“But…” Tears spilled from mini-Prowl’s optics, and Jazz’s spark clenched. “’Ri gone ‘way with Prime, why you, too?” 

“I’m afraid that this is time-sensitive.” Jazz kissed his forehead. “Bu’ yer Uncles Side Burn and Red Alert will take care of you, yeah? An’ if they don’ve time, go harass Uncle Ratch, he’ll be happy t’ see ya.” He hugged the trembling sparkling to his chest. “Shsh, it’s alrigh’ lil’ one. I’ll be back before ya even notice, promised.”

“’Kay.”

“Tha’s th’ spirit.” Jazz smiled, and kissed his chevron shield. He would later regret his words, when he returned two vorns later, heavily damaged. Bluestreak refused to talk to him for a whole _fraggin’ stellar-cycle_ , despite Jazz’s best tries. Also, the stuff Jazz had heard while rigging Soundwave’s new base was deeply disturbing. He was sure that the information was legitimate, but still, this needed confirmation. And Jazz knew exactly who to send…

Jazz smirked. Yes, _he_ would be perfect for this.

***

Contrary to popular believe, Prowl detested stress. It had his frame on high alert, made his Energon pump pump faster and his CPU and tactical systems and battle computer would go full speed. Not that it was bad during a battle, but Prowl didn’t consider that stress. No, stress would also make him anxious, screw with his sensory receptors and system, and usually ended with a very painful processor ache or a crash. Normally the latter. 

And to make matters worse, there wasn’t really any rhyme or reason as to what crashed him (when he was stressed, that is; otherwise Prowl didn’t crash). Sometimes it was a simple technicality that his processor would loop on. Most often he would face a situation that would create a conflict between his logical and tactical systems and his emotional centre. Sometimes Prowl just needed a decent defrag. Or, rarely however, someone touched him (and it might be as simple as a touch to his arm) and he crashed.

So yes, Prowl disliked stress. The way Prowl dealt with it was either going (fleeing, really) to medbay, get a hot, nice bath or bake. Yes, bake. Prowl found that baking was a neutral topic for his CPU and all the other systems in his helm to focus on, and it was attention demanding enough that he wouldn’t think about something else. It kept his mind occupied, his servos busy and resulted in tasty treats. What was not to like? 

Road Rage loved to help him, and he treasured the rare occasions he had to bond with her over something they both enjoyed thoroughly. Bluestreak would also try and help, but that resulted in a bigger mess than anything else. Prowl let him do as he pleased, though. It was good to see his bitlet happy and carefree (and Primus knows that would change soon enough). Smokescreen usually disappeared for that, though he would always eat whatever Prowl would make with enthusiasm. It probably reminded him of the times when Prowl would have time – and the permission – to bake in the Royal kitchen. 

Lately, Prowl had started to make bigger batches, enough to treat the entire base to Energon goodies (Road Rage was a big help for that). Even Bluestreak, a sparkling in his second upgrades now, was an asset for Prowl’s goal to spoil the entire base (not that anyone thought he was doing it out of the goodness of his spark. It was generally believed that Prowl only baked to keep himself from crashing. Which was only partially true; Prowl really did enjoy baking for others. It was relaxing and made him feel as if he was caring for his soldiers.). 

What Prowl had noticed after one of his baking strings, was that there were other mechs on this base with problems coping with stress. Most noticeably, Smokescreen, his creation would disappear from time to time, only to reappear visibly happier and relaxed. Red Alert was another one. Prowl still owed him for taking care of Bluestreak during the Seeker attack fiasco, and he was all too happy to lend him his sparkling for cuddling. 

Most interestingly, however, was Jazz. Prowl hadn’t thought that the saboteur really minded stress, he was Spec Ops after all (and worse, but Prowl had already made peace with that). But after a few vorn, Prowl noticed that the saboteur had three different methods for coping with stress: One, he made out with mechs. Yes, made out, because Jazz would always leave the rec room or officer’s mess alone, and visibly happier than before. Two: sparring, or ‘beating the scrap out of bots’, as Ironhide liked to call it. Jazz was always more relaxed after a good sparring round. And three: music.

Prowl marvelled at the musical talent that was Jazz. He was currently standing in the back of the rec room, Bluestreak on his hip, and he was listening to the Polyhexian play a song on a beautiful grand synthesiser. The simplicity of the music belied its actual difficulty and the tactician let the flowing melody lull him. It touched a part of Prowl’s spark that the Praxian didn’t want to acknowledge, sounding wistful and joyous, and it caressed his doorwings. Then, suddenly, the tone changed, a bit more hopeful, and Jazz’s servos practically danced over the instrument. 

But it wasn’t the music that captivated most of Prowl’s attention. No, it was the way Jazz played. Visor offline, helm tilted and his frame swaying enticingly without purposely doing it. Those servos dancing elegantly over the keys. Prowl couldn’t help but find himself drawn to this mech, and he turned away, left the rec room and the other Autobots and Jazz with his beautiful captivating manner, clutching Bluestreak tight to his chest. He was couldn’t allow himself a distraction, and he couldn’t allow himself to become even more vulnerable than he already was through his ties with his creations.

But mainly, Prowl was afraid of his reactions to that mech.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a warning, there's going to be a time jump for the next chapter, because as much as I'd love to add more sparkling!Blue chapters, this story isn't about that. Maybe I'll do an extra story about that, depending if inspiration strikes;)
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	11. Chapter 10: The Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “ _Gambling_ , Smokescreen?” Prowl’s voice was icy fury as he snarled at his creation in a deserted alleyway. “What were you _thinking_? I cannot believe you! Especially that you would abandon Bluestreak and come here instead of _watching him_.”

_One hundred and twenty-two vorn later_

Two revving engines. One chasing the other. It was pure _bliss_ for Prowl as he accelerated even more, getting closer and closer to the vehicle in front of him – who had the gall to fishtail in order to taunt Prowl even more. Well, he couldn’t let such sassiness escape unpunished. With blaring sirens, he gunned his engine to max and pushed the left bumper of the car in front of him, sending him spinning. Then he transformed and landed in a crouch, one servo aiding him to slow down. Once he had control over himself, he ran over to where his prize laid in a groaning heap and quickly pinned the mech down. 

“Caught you.” Prowl purred and leaned in close. 

Jazz flexed his servos as if to test the Praxian’s grip, then relaxed his frame and grinned cheekily. “Ya did. Ne’er thought there’s gonna be someone faster than me.” With a motion that was too quick for Prowl, he reversed their positions. “Bu’ I win.” He vented against Prowl’s neck and the doorwinged mech shivered slightly. 

“Maybe.” He bucked his hips in a silent command for Jazz to get off him. For a moment it appeared as if he wouldn’t, but then the Polyhexian reluctantly rose to his pedes. He offered Prowl a servo to help him up, and Prowl gladly accepted. “Are you coming for dinner tonight? Bluestreak has been asking where you have been.”

“I don’ know.” Jazz sighed and scratched his neck. “Don’ wanna intrude on y’all.” 

Prowl’s expression softened. “You would not be intruding, Jazz. You are Bluestreak’s sire and he needs his sire close.” He raised a servo to touch the saboteur’s arm. “Come tonight.”

A strange expression flitted over Jazz’s face, but it was gone before Prowl could decipher it. “A’ight, I’ll come.” A mischievous glint appeared on his visor. “You better give me desert.”

That comment earned him a slap. Jazz was still rubbing his smarting cheek as he watched Prowl leave, his optics never wavering from the narrow waist, swaying hips and fluttering doorwings.

***

Bluestreak cursed his curiosity. Not that he knew a lot of curses or bad words, despite being around his older brother. No, everyone watched their language when being around the one hundred and eighty-five vorn old youngling. Right now, he wished he would know more curses. Carrier had left him in his quarters, telling him to be a good youngling and stay there, he would return in a joor. His big brother was supposed to watch over him, but the moment Carrier had disappeared, Smokey had fallen into deep recharge.

Blue had gotten bored quickly, so he had decided to explore for a bit. Luck was on his side, because Carrier seemed to have forgotten to lock the door. It silently _swooshed_ open, and Blue, not believing his fortune, had peered outside. There was no one on the long corridor, making the naturally curious youngling dare to leave his home. He had strolled around, exploring – and unfortunately lost track of where he had gone, leading to his current predicament. 

Now all that mattered was returning to his quarters before Carrier noticed that he was gone. Blue wandered around for a bit more, hoping to encounter anyone to take him back. He got distracted a few times, however, and found some interesting things here and there.

“Hey, youngling! What’re ya doing there?”

Blue flinched, and his spark jumped with shock. He hadn’t even seen someone approach with his winglets! He turned around to see two mechs standing on the other end of the corridor, one red, one golden. The latter was scowling fiercely, while the other one had a strange sparkle in his optics. Blue frowned. Smokey had told him that scowling mechs where unhappy, and Carrier always hugged him when he was unhappy. Maybe the golden mech needed a hug?

So, he went over to the two mechs, and then, since he couldn’t reach up higher, hugged the golden mech’s right leg.

“What the frag! Sides, get it _off_ me!” An indignant voice exclaimed. He was met with laughter. Laughter was good, wasn’t it? He must be doing something right. Blue hugged the leg tighter, shuttering his optics.

“Aww, look at you! So cute! ‘Sides, look at his doorwings and the colour, Sunny.”

“Don’t call me that!”

“I think this is Smokes’ little brother, Bluestreak.” Blue raised his helm and onlined his optics to look at the red mech, as he heard his designation. “Aren’t you?” Blue nodded shyly. The red mech knelt down, a broad smile on his faceplate. “Hi, Blue, I’m Sideswipe. You can call me Sides, if you want.”

“Hello, Sides.”

Sides cooed. “Aren’t you sweet? The idiot you’re hugging is my twin Sunstreaker, by the way.”

Blue frowned, then looked up at the scowling mech. “Sunstreak?”

“Sunstreaker.” Sideswipe repeated. “Just an ‘er’ more.”

“Sunstreak-er.” Blue smiled proudly.

The red mech laughed. “Yeah, just like that. But you can call him Sunny, of you want.”

“No, that’s NOT–”

“Sunny?” Blue asked shyly, quickly glancing at Sunny, before hugging the leg again.

A sigh, then two arms lifted him up, and Blue found himself in the golden mech’s arms. The scowl had disappeared, the small Praxian noted with satisfaction. Sunny had some interesting fans at the side of his head, and Blue reached out to touch them. They felt funny, and air streamed out of them. Blue was so absorbed in exploring whatever it was the golden mech had on his head, that he failed to notice that Sunny was holding as still as he could, and Sides was staring at what was happening with disbelieving optics.

“You’re…” Blue frowned. What was the word again? _Ah, yes._ “You’re beautiful.”

Blue optics widened with surprise, and Sunny looked at his twin, feeling kind of lost. “Uhm, thank you?” It wasn’t Blue’s fault that the golden frontliner was unable to take compliments that weren’t meant as flirting or envy.

Sides cackled madly, but he quickly calmed down when Sunny glared at him. “As entertaining as this is, I think Prowl’ll be looking for you.”

Blue cringed at his Carrier’s designation. Oh, he would get trouble for what he did! He didn’t have a choice but returning, though, held securely in Sunny’s arms, so he just snuggled close to the golden mech, basking in the strong and calm field to get as comfortable as he could. He didn’t notice the stares he received as he listened to the strong spark behind the Kaonite’s armour. No one except Sideswipe was allowed to touch Sunstreaker (at least not in public), lest they risk getting injured.

It didn’t take long until the Twins arrived at the room Prowl was, discussing security with Uncle Red Alert and Inferno, the paranoid Director’s Second.

“Sir, we found him wandering the corridors.” Sideswipe bargained into the room, not waiting for permission to enter. The Twins knew Prowl from their last stellar-cycles as mechlings, having been Smokescreen’s best friends since then, and a few vorns younger than the Praxian Prince.

Prowl opened his mouth to berate them for barging into a meeting, when his optics caught sight of his creation, snuggled comfortably in Sunstreaker’s arms. He raised an optics ridge. “Bluestreak?” He asked in a stern voice.

Bluestreak buried his face in the golden mech’s neck cables. “Smokey’s ‘charging. Was bored.”

Prowl pinched the bridge of his nose. “I leave you for half a joor. _Half a joor_. And this happens.” He ex-vented. “Red Alert, I hope you do not mind Bluestreak’s presence?”

“Wait, sir!” Sideswipe interrupted. “We could watch him for the reminder of the meeting.” Sunstreaker sent his twin a murderous look.

“Thank you, Sideswipe, but I like my creation alive. I doubt he would survive long enough with _Sunstreaker_ looking like that.” Prowl replied dryly, and the golden frontliner schooled his features.

“Don’t worry, _sir_ , he’s completely safe.” Sunstreaker ground out.

The monochrome mech smiled pleasantly. “Very well, you will watch him then. One scrape on him, however, and you will find yourself on med bay duty for the reminder of the vorn, am I understood?”

“Yes, sir!”

Prowl flickered his doorwings in dismissal, and Blue copied the motion. “Dismissed.” Amusement shone in the older Praxian’s optics, especially when he noticed his creation trying to imitate the motion he had done with his doorwings.

With one last salute at Prowl, Red Alert and Inferno, the Twins and Bluestreak left the room.

***

A few decaorns later, Prowl entered his quarters, one servo massaging his right temple. He could already feel the processor ache forming. Tomorrow would be pits, but he would manage. He always did. Right now, however, Prowl wanted nothing more but draw himself an oilbath and relax. 

“Oh, frag.”

Prowl’s head shot up, staring at the scene on front of him with disbelief. Sunstreaker was lying on Prowl’s couch with his helm in Sideswipe’s lap, deep in recharge, it seemed. On top of his chassis was Bluestreak, curled into a tight ball, also recharging, and that quite happily if his fluttering doorwings were anything to go by. One of the golden frontliner’s servos was lying possessively on top of the youngling.

A subpart of Prowl’s processor took a photo capture, mainly to remember his sparkling’s peacefully moments in this primusforsaken war, but also to have something on the golden mech. The Lord’s optics swept around, looking for his older creation. Smokescreen had been responsible for watching his little brother this dark-cycle, but he was nowhere to be seen.

“Where is Smokescreen?” Prowl asked lowly, intense optics focused on Sideswipe.

“Ah, well, he, uhm… He went to get some… Energon goodies?” The red twin said nervously.

Prowl optics brightened, doorwings fanning out in an authoritative display. “At least make some effort if you try and to lie to me. I am asking one last time: Where. Is. Smokescreen.”

Sideswipe cringed. “Uhm. He’s at _Vector’s_? Sir.”

Doorwings jerked backwards in shock. _Vector’s_? That establishment was known for illegal gambling. “And what exactly is he doing there instead of watching Bluestreak?”

“Well, he didn’t tell us–”

“Sideswipe.”

“He’s gambling. And betting. But he’s really good, hasn’t lost yet.” The red twin quickly said. “And Sunny and I don’t mind watching Blue, honest.”

“I do not care if you ‘mind’ taking care of my creation or not. What I care about is that my oldest creation is shrinking duties _again_ and involved in illegal activities.” Prowl turned on the heels of his pedes and swept towards the door. “I will be back in about a joor. Watch Bluestreak until I return and draw me a bath. Primus knows I need it.”

Without waiting for an answer, the Praxian left his quarters, making his way to a certain establishment with a death promising expression on his handsome faceplates.

***

“ _Gambling_ , Smokescreen?” Prowl’s voice was icy fury as he snarled at his creation in a deserted alleyway. He had waited in front of _Vector’s_ and given the colourful Praxian a breem to come out or Primus help him, he would come inside and drag him out himself. Knowing that his carrier didn’t make empty threats, Smokescreen had hurried to comply, only to be dragged into this alleyway and getting slagged. Verbally. Prowl would never lay a servo on him. “What were you _thinking_? I cannot believe you! Especially that you would abandon Bluestreak and come here instead of _watching him_.”

Smokescreen curled his servos into fists. “Well, not everyone has your cold processor and is able to deal with every slag thrown into their faceplates logically!” He hissed, anger taking over his control. “Maybe I haven’t been okay! I mean, yes, I haven’t been to big battles or the frontline, but I _killed_ , I had to fight for my _freakin’ life_ , and I – I don’t know how to _cope_ with having killed!” Tears were streaming down his cheeks, but Smokescreen couldn’t care less. He forcefully wiped them away and averted his gaze, unable to bear his creator’s stricken face. 

“It was too much.” Smokescreen whispered brokenly. “I couldn't bear it anymore and started gambling… it helped. Takes away the pain and clears my processor.” He vented his systems shakily, then dared a glance at his creator. “I’m sorry if I have disappointed you, I’m sorry if I have hurt you, but I need this. Please.”

Prowl’s icy optics softened, and the next thing Smokescreen knew, he was engulfed in both his carrier’s arms and comforting field. He stiffened, but after a few kliks he slumped into his progenitor’s embrace, sobbing brokenly. “You did not. You should have said something, you know I would have helped you. I always will.” Prowl whispered. “I promise.”

If there was one thing Smokescreen knew, then that his creator never lied to him and always held his promises. He melted into Prowl’s embrace.

***

The next orn, Smokescreen found his carrier slumped over his desk, doorwings flapping in his sleep. A fond smile appeared on the colourful Praxian’s faceplate. Most mechs might not see it, but behind his apparently uncaring demeanour, his Carrier hid a soft core. This was just another proof for that. 

Smokescreen silently walked over to the Energon dispenser in the kitchen and prepared breakfast for Bluestreak, Road Rage, the Twins, himself and his carrier. Then he proceeded to wake up first the Praxian femme and then his little brother. Road Rage needed at least half a joor to get up, while Bluestreak immediately shot out of Smokescreen’s berth (where he had recharged) and entered his own to wake up the Twins. Luckily, the Kaonites had programmed their sensor nets to recognise Bluestreak whether they were asleep or not, so that they wouldn’t attack him when Bluestreak jumped them in their berth to wake them up. 

Just as right now. Sideswipe would still flail and curse in colourful Kaon, while Sunstreaker would jerk and fall off the berth, but nothing happened to the grey Praxian. Bluestreak giggled and flopped down on top of the golden frontliner, affectionately nuzzling his chest. Sunstreaker didn’t even look annoyed. Smokescreen chuckled at the sight before turning around and took his Carrier’s Energon. Then, with steps loud enough to announce himself, but not too loud as to startle the monochrome mech, he went over to the older Praxian. 

“Carrier,” he said softly, gently trailing a servo down a white arm. “wake up.” A pristine white doorwing twitched, nearly slapping Smokescreen’s servo. Smokescreen grinned and did it again. The twitch was more prominent. And no matter how much he wanted to repeat it, Smokescreen refrained himself and gently shook his Carrier. “You’re late. Your meeting started half a joor ago.” 

Prowl jerked out of his recharge, optics bright with sleepiness and panic. “I need to–” The rest of his sentence dissolved into static. 

“Calm down. You still have plenty of time.” Smokescreen said and placed the cube in front of his Carrier. “Just wanted to wake you up.” 

Prowl looked at the Energon with a frown, as if he had never seen this particular blend before, then turned that expression to his creation. “You what?” 

Smokescreen shrugged with a grin. “Try your berth tonight, I heard it’s softer.” 

The monochrome Praxian grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like ‘ _scraplet-infested rust hole_ ’ and started sipping his Energon. Smokescreen shook his head, huffing fondly when his Carrier started shuffling through his pads and turned to drink his own. The Twins would have theirs together with Blue and Road Rage, should the femme decide to show up. The purple Praxian was going through a phase that made Smokescreen very happy that he wasn’t a creator. She was near her final upgrades, so would soon be gone, he hoped. He heard that she wanted to become a bounty hunter.

“Smokescreen.” The colourful mech jumped at the voice next to him, but his Carrier took no notice of his shock as he stared at the screen of a datapad. It was amazing how silently the older Praxian could move if he wanted to. “I made an appointment for you with Rung for this orn. He agreed to see you, provided that you consented, and help you through your problems.” Prowl looked up, a vulnerable and hopeful tilt of his wings betraying his calm demeanour. “I know this might not be the help you wish for, but I know my own abilities, and this is not something I am qualified for.” 

“It’s okay.” Smokescreen interrupted him gently, a small smile on his lips. “More than okay. I appreciate it, very much so.” His own sensor panels wiggled happily. His Carrier might not be the best concerning public displays of affections – or even non-public ones – but he did care, and he tried to do his best with the resources he had. And to be honest, Smokescreen really believed that Rung would be a good option. Why he never thought to go see the psychologist in the first place was a mystery to himself. 

Prowl’s doorwings relaxed a bit, and he gave his creation the barest hint of a smile. “I am glad.” He downed the rest of his Energon and placed the cube in the sink. “Thank you for breakfast.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

Prowl nodded, then trailed an affectionate servo down Smokescreen’s cheek. “Talk to me if something is bothering you.” He waited for his creation’s nod, then turned around. “I will see you for dinner? Tell the Twins they will watch Bluestreak this morning, Side Burn will take care of him this afternoon and they are expected in the training room. Ironhide will have my wings if he does not see his protégés for another orn.” 

“Will do.” Smokescreen chirped and watched his creator walk out the room, several datapads tucked under his arm, optics trained on another one. His Carrier needed a break. A smile appeared on his face. Who was better suited than a certain black and white saboteur?

***

Prowl pranced out of Jazz’s way before kicking him, sending the saboteur flying. But Jazz wouldn’t be Third in Command and Head of Spec Ops if the only thing he could do was look pretty, and the visored mech twisted mid-air, landing safely on his pedes. A smirk hovered at the corner of his lips and he sauntered back to Prowl, one servo twirling an Energon blade.

“Ya’re good.” He commented.

“I had received training in several martial arts.” Prowl replied. “It was something I was good in and enjoyed.”

“Hm.” Jazz tilted his helm. “Bu’ ya’ve never finished yer trainin’. Who taught ya?” 

The Praxian froze before focusing on stance. “Master Yoketron. He was killed by one of his former students before I was able to complete my training. How did you know?”

Jazz merely smirked and attacked again, only to be easily blocked by the winged mech. They continued their dance until the saboteur managed to knock Prowl’s arms away. He took advantage of his sparring partner’s vulnerability and jumped forward to –

Prowl’s optics widened as soft lips descended on his, doorwings jerking up. A gentle glossa took advantage of his surprise, slipping into his mouth and claiming him thoroughly. The tactician moaned involuntarily at the inappropriate ( _no, totally appropriate!_ ), unwelcome (yet _so wanted_ ) and absolute searing and _hot_ kiss. No one else had ever kissed him like this, not even Barricade. Prowl forgot himself for a while, kissing back, before remembering where they currently were and he pushed Jazz away, cooling fans working furiously.

The saboteur was in no better condition, but he had a smug expression on his face, and Prowl did absolutely _not_ get weak knees from it. He growled at the Head of Spec Ops before turning around, only to freeze. Every single mech and femme in the gym were staring at them, some of them shocked, some of them delighted, some of them with a mischievous glint in their optics. 

“Anybody who breathes _one single glyph_ about this will be working double shifts for the rest of the vorn.” Prowl hissed before striding out of the room, flickering his doorwings in a rude gesture at Jazz. 

The saboteur snickered. “Ya know ya want me!” He called after Prowl. Prowl didn’t acknowledge his words, merely gritted his dentae. Because the worst thing? Jazz was right.

By the end of the orn, every single bot at Autobot HQ knew about The Kiss. Prowl had to endure lewd looks and inappropriate comments, sometimes even bots who thought they needed to inform him of just _how good_ Jazz was in berth and that he should just enjoy it while it lasted. Because it would end sooner or later, that everyone was sure of.

And that made Prowl weary. He wasn’t looking for a fling, he wanted something permanent. But he knew how Jazz was, and no matter how much his spark told him to take a tumble in the berth with the more than willing saboteur, Prowl refrained to do so. He would not have his spark broken a fifth time.

***

“So, you and Jazz, huh?”

The monochrome mech jumped in surprise at the voice, nearly spilling his just freshly acquired Energon. He turned around to growl at whoever dared talking to him, but stopped when he noticed that it was Smokescreen.

“There is nothing to say.” Prowl said icily.

His creation raised a sceptic optics ridge. “Really? ‘Cause from what I’ve heard, you two were all over each other. Didn’t know you liked exhibitionism, ‘Tor.”

Prowl glared at Smokescreen. “I do not, as a matter of fact. And it was more Jazz forcing himself on me than anything else.” At least that’s what he wanted to believe. He could not have feelings for that irritating Polyhexian.

Smokescreen gave him a searching look. “I don’t believe that.” He said quietly. “And neither do you. Nobody could force you to do something you don’t want to.” He grimaced. “When you’re not a prisoner, at least. But, you know what I mean.” Prowl didn’t answer and Smokescreen sighed. “Would it be really that bad if you gave it a try? You deserve happiness in your life, more than most mechs that I know. I still remember how you were with Sire, and while you liked each other and were content, you weren’t _happy_.”

Prowl lowered his helm. Smokescreen was right about his and Strider’s relationship, even though he had tried to hide it from his creations. He softly vented his systems. “I do not wish to get hurt a fifth time, bitlet.” He said quietly. “And from what I have heard about Jazz, I would be. Sooner rather than later, as well.” He gently trailed a servo over his creation’s doorwing. “Don’t worry about me, I am happy. You, Road Rage and Bluestreak are enough for me.”

And with those words he left, Smokescreen’s worried optics trained on his back.

***

The next orn, every single mech present in the training room, including Jazz and with the exception of Prowl, found themselves on double-shifts for the entire remaining vorn (since the vorn had just started they were bound for seventy-seven long stellar-cycles).

***

“I don’t understand.” Bluestreak complained and threw the stylus onto the table in frustration.

Smokescreen looked up from his book and raised an optic ridge. “What don’t you understand?” Were the calculation exercises he had given his little brother too difficult? But Bluestreak had shown that he had inherited his Carrier’s intelligence, so they shouldn’t be a problem. 

“Carrier and Sire.” Bluestreak huffed and crossed his arms. He had gotten his fourth upgrades three stellar-cycles ago, and Smokescreen was still surprised at how much more mature he was (if a youngling could be called mature, that is). “I… I dunno –” 

“Don’t know, Blue.” Smokescreen corrected him fondly. 

“Yeah, well, I don’t know, but aren’t they supposed to be, uh, bonded?” He bit his lower lip. “All the other younglings at the playground always tell how their creators are happy and _together_ , and well, Sire and Carrier rarely are. And when they are in the same room, it’s always so stiff and polite and they never kiss or hold hands and do ‘grown-up’ stuff.” 

Smokescreen stilled. Well, frag. Of course, Bluestreak was bound to notice something odd about the relationship between his Carrier and Jazz, but Smokescreen had hoped it would happen sometime later rather than this soon. “Look, little bit, it’s complicated.”

Bluestreak lowered his helm, and his little doorwings sagged. “Were they just casual and I and accident? Is that it?” 

“No!” Smokescreen shifted and dragged his little brother close to him. “It’s got nothing to do with you, okay? They both love you very much. It’s just…” Smokescreen hesitated. Bluestreak was still so young… “Carrier will tell you once you’re older, okay?” 

Azure optics looked up to Smokescreen, and the older Praxian nearly gave in. “Why can’t I know now? Is it bad?”

“Not at all.” Smokescreen said and hugged him closer, draping a doorwing over him. “Just, a very sad story involving my sire.” 

Bluestreak frowned. “Jazz isn’t your sire?”

Smokescreen couldn’t help the downward twitch of his lips, though he managed to keep his EM field stable. “No, he isn’t. My sire’s designation was Strider, and he died when Praxus fell.”

“We’re… not brothers?” Bluestreak asked, doorwings canting with confusion, facial features distressed. 

“No, we are.” Smokescreen said hurriedly. “We have the same carrier, remember?” _We even have the same sire_ , Smokescreen thought, but quickly squashed the thought. Barricade was something Bluestreak definitely did not need to know about. 

“But why aren’t Sire and Carrier together?” Bluestreak complained. 

Smokescreen sighed. “Because they’re both stupid – don’t tell them I said that – and afraid that the other doesn’t love the other.” 

“But that’s stupid.” Bluestreak snuggled closer. “Of course they love each other.” 

Smokescreen snorted. “Try telling them that. They’re both as stubborn and dense as a circuit gel infection.” Bluestreak giggled, then hopped back to his place on his couch and continued his calculation exercises. Smokescreen’s smile fell off his lips and the tips of his doorwings trembled. Primus forbid that Bluestreak ever learned how exactly he had been conceived.

***

“Hello, Smokescreen.” Rung smiled when he saw the Praxian. “Please, have a seat.” Smokescreen smiled at him and sat down on the golden couch. Rung’s office hadn’t changed over the vorn, it pretty much looked the same as when Smokescreen had been there the first time. “What gives me the pleasure of your company today?” 

“Nothing really, just…” Smokescreen sighed and slumped into the couch. “Well, two things mainly, but I don’t know much you can help me with that.” He paused, and Rung folded his servos over his knee, patiently waiting for the Praxian to continue. “I’m pretty sure you know through gossip that Jazz is pursuing my carrier, right?” Rung nodded, and Smokescreen continued. “And that Carrier is rejecting every time? It’s just… It’s so _annoying_! They clearly are attracted to each other, even Blue can see that, but they refuse to acknowledge that! 

“Can’t Jazz see Carrier is afraid of getting hurt and left? Can’t Carrier see that Jazz won’t hurt him? And Blue and I are caught in the middle and it makes me go _crazy_! Argh!” Smokescreen crossed his arms, a deep scowl on his face. His expression quickly changed to sadness and painful. “Blue noticed. And he talked to me. And, well. He started asking questions, about why his sire and carrier don’t seem to be in a relationship and happy together. He wanted to know why, when they should have been together before I was created.

“And I – I told him I had a different sire. Primus.” Smokescreen rubbed his face. “What will I do should he ask even further? I can’t keep it a secret forever who his real sire is! And then he’ll ask how come that Barricade kindled with Carrier when Carrier was bonded to Sire and he’ll learn that Carrier was raped and–”

“Smokescreen, calm down.” Rung interrupted him, a concerned look on his faceplate. “Vent your systems. Slow, yes, like that. Again. Good. Feel better?” Smokescreen sighed and nodded. “Good. Now, first of all, it’s not your task to tell Bluestreak, that’s Prowl’s job. Second, talk to your Carrier about your brother’s questions, he should know about this and plan accordingly, with Jazz’s help, if possible.”

Smokescreen nodded, shoulders relaxing. “Yes.”

Rung smiled. “Very good. Now, I don’t think I help your carrier and Jazz to enter a relationship, that they need to do on their own. However, you will always find a listening audial if you ever find yourself with the need to rant.” 

“Thank you.” Smokescreen grinned. “It does help, to talk. Which is why…” Smokescreen fidgeted. “I want to become a psychologist and help others, just as you helped me.” He bit his lower lip and looked at Rung. “Can you help me?”

Rung’s optics brightened, and a bright smiled bloomed over his face. “That would be my pleasure, Smokescreen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooofff


	12. Chapter 11: The Senator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blurr opticked him. “You-know-my-biggest-secret.” He stated, trying – but failing – to keep the distrust out of his voice. “What do you want?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: And now we fin-
> 
> Blurr: Wait-I-want-them-to-know-why-I'm-a-Decepticon!
> 
> Me:
> 
> Me:
> 
> Me: FINE

_Racing was_ everything. _There was nothing that compared to this, no object, no promise, no feeling, nothing. At least to Blurr, that is. The blue racer had his optics shuttered, silently counting down the kliks. Ten, nine, eight – his legs flexed, desperate to start the race – five, four three, two one –_

_Blurr shot out onto the track. It was hard to consciously focus on not being_ too _fast. Just fast enough to win. It wouldn’t do to get disqualified because of some glitch he had emerged with. It wasn’t his fault that he was the way he was. It wasn’t his fault he was_ fast. _He could probably circle Cybertron in a few joors, if he wanted to. But still, they would probably exclude him from further races if they knew._

_And it was so slagging hard to consciously slow his speech. It was a small price, however, if he was allowed to continue racing. Because, as he had already established, there was nothing Blurr loved more than the feeling of rush and excitement when on the racing tracks, the crowd cheering for him. He didn’t need them to know how fast he_ really _was, just that he was_ the fastest _there was._

_All the troubles he went through, they were totally worth it in the end when he crossed the finishing line, crowd calling his name, celebrating his undefeated winning-streak. He was Blurr of Velocitron, Champion of the Cybertron Commonwealth. And there was no one faster than him._

_The parties afterwards were just the crystals on top of the oil cake. Blurr smiled for the cameras and reporters, gave interviews, posed for fans. Then he entered the club(s), paid a round for every mech present on his name, let mechs pay for his Energon. This was life. And should he ever feel the itch to run,_ truly run, _he would leave the party alone, check into his hotel room, and then disappear faster than the security system was able to record._

_And run._

_But more often than not, he would find a willing frame, take them to his room, ‘face the slag out of them, and leave to spend the night in his actual room. This dark-cycle would happen this way. There were a few frames that had caught Blurr’s attention. One of them, a yellow and silver femme, swayed her hips with the beat of the music, and the racer’s engine gave an appreciating rev. Yes, he would have her in his berth tonight._

_Blurr downed the rest of his drink and started to make his way over to her, when suddenly a bulky frame blocked his way. The Velocitronian frowned, staring up at the black mech. “What do you want?” He asked._

_“My boss wants t’ talk t’ ya.” The black mech replied in a gruff voice. “Better not leave ‘im waitin’.”_

_Blurr crossed his arms. “Yeah, not interested. Sorry. But there’s a femme calling my name.” He tried to move past the mech, but a black arm shot out, grabbing the blue racer by his shoulder and steered him out of the club._

_“Ya don’t deny a Senator, Velocitronian, no matter where ya’re from.”_

_Surprise had Blurr faltering. “Senator?”_

_“Ya’ll getta know everythin’ ya need t’ know once we’re there.” Was all he received for an answer. Blurr sighed. Well, he’ll just have to go through this. And if this was something shady, well, there had yet to be a situation Blurr had not been able to run away from. His mood for a good frag was ruined, anyways. The black mech led him to a fancy and obviously expensive hotel. Not that Blurr was stingy when it came to his comfort, but this… This was Towers level. Their cheapest rooms might have fitted into Blurr’s budget, and that would have been without anything._

_That this mech’s boss was a Senator suddenly became a lot more credible. The three femmes at the reception smiled at them politely, obviously familiar with the black mech and recognizing the racer. Blurr allowed himself to relax a tiny bit. They entered the elevator, a fancy golden thing with mirrors on every wall and buttons made of crystal. Blurr tried to hide his reaction when the black mech inserted a card and pressed the button for the uppermost floor. This Senator must be rich even for Cybertonian standards, and that meant something._

_The ride up passed in silence, not that they had spoken before. Soft classic music filled the elevator, and Blurr found himself charmed by the elegance of this hotel._ Maybe one orn, _he decided. There was a quiet_ ping _, then the elevator doors opened, leading into a large, luxurious suite._

_“Ah, thank you, Ashduster. You may leave.” A pleasant voice said, and Blurr’s vents stuttered. The most beautiful mech he had ever seen was standing there, a gentle smile gracing his pristine white faceplate. Bright blue optics shone beneath a blue crown on the otherwise equally white helm, apart from the two golden rings adorning his audial fins, that is. His entire colour scheme was a gorgeous work of blue, gold and white, and Blurr was in awe. This is how he would have envisioned a Matrix-chosen Prime, or a Herald of Primus himself. Blurr barely noticed Ashduster’s exit, too caught up in staring at the mech in front of him. “Please,” said the Senator, “Make yourself comfortable. May I offer you some Energon?”_

_Blurr’s legs moved on their own, sitting down on the comfortable couch. “Some high-grade?”_

_“Of course.” The Senator poured some clear, bubbling pink liquid into another cup, and passed it over to the racer. “Here you go.” He sat down next to Blurr, but left a polite distance between them. It somehow dampened Blurr’s mood. “I am sorry for having to cut your partying short, but I wished for a private talk.”_

_“Which you obviously got.” Blurr replied, though there was no heat behind his words. He took a sip of his Energon and gave his cup surprised look. He had never tasted such a rich and tasty high-grade before._

_The Senator had the grace to look sheepish. “Again, I apologize. However, when I heard that you will merely stay for two orns after the race in Tesarus, I didn’t have much time to plan anything.” He tilted his head, a movement Blurr had never imagined could look so elegant. “Did Ashduster tell you who I am?”_

_Blurr shook his helm. “He must have forgotten to mention it.”_

_The Senator gave him another dazzling smile. “I am sure he has. I am Senator Shockwave.” He held out a servo. “It is my pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Blurr.”_

_Blurr had to manually override his cooling fans, lest they kick on. He_ liked _how his designation sounded from Shockwave’s mouth. “The pleasure’s mine.” Blurr replied as he took the Senator’s servo and squeezed it gently before letting go. “Why am I here?”_

_Shockwave chuckled. “Straight to the point, hm? I have to say, I am curious, Blurr. Why do you race?”_

_The racer’s optics snapped to bright blue ones, surprised by the question. No one had ever asked him that question. Only ever ‘when did you start racing’, ‘when did you know racing was your thing’, ‘what do you like about racing’. But never_ why _he raced. “I like the feeling.” He answered eventually._

_“Of winning?”_

_“That’s part of it. The anticipation before the start, the freedom during the race, the thrilling joy when I emerge as victor. It’s not one particular thing, it’s the combination of everything.” Blurr replied, trying – and failing quite badly – to put into words what racing meant to him._

_“Hm.” Shockwave hummed, optics thoughtful as he took a sip of his Energon. “That might explain it.”_

_Blurr frowned. “Explain what?”_

_The Senator looked at him, a contemplative look on his handsome faceplates. “Why you hold back when racing. I know how fast you can be; and what you are showing during the competitions? That is nothing compared to circle Cybertron in a matter of mere joors.”_

_Fear welled up in Blurr, seeping into his field. What happened next was out of his control, borne out of pure instinct. He shot out of the couch, and was standing next to the elevator in a matter of a nanoklik, finger desperately pressing at the button. “No-no-no-no-no-this-cannot-be-happening.” He murmured over and over again._

_“Wait!” Shockwave called out, standing up and taking a few steps towards Blurr. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I merely wish to understand why a mech like you, who is clearly far superior to the others when it comes to racing, would still compete.” He gave a half shy, half warm smile. “And I think I do. Please, I meant no offense.” He gestured at the couch. “Sit down with me?” His optics were shining with earnest hope._

_Blurr opticked him. “You-know-my-biggest-secret.” He stated, trying – but failing – to keep the distrust out of his voice. “What do you want?”_

_Shockwave tilted his helm, once again with that impossible elegance of his. “Why do you think I want something?”_

_“Everyone always wants something.” The racer replied, but cautiously moving closer. “So, I’ll ask you again: what do you want to keep my secret, well, a secret?” This moment, this situation, this had always been what Blurr had been afraid of for… as long as he could think, really. The only ones who had known about his glitch – because there was no other name for this, let’s face it – had been his creators. They had died a long time ago, killed during an accident that Blurr couldn’t remember. He was the only one to survive. Primus, he missed his sire. She had been the strongest femme he had known._

_He glanced at the Senator again, wondering what exactly someone like him could want. Surely not money, it was obvious that he had enough. Blackmail material, perhaps? His Energon froze. Interface? He really hoped not. Sure, Shockwave might be the most beautiful mech he had ever met, but that didn’t mean he wanted to be pressured into this._

_Behind him, the elevator pinged as it arrived._

_Shockwave looked at him with sad optics. “I cannot say I don’t understand why you would think this, I am all too familiar with the ways of politics. But believe me when I say this: you have nothing to be afraid of. I swear it.” He motioned to the couch once again. “Please?”_

_Blurr gave him a long, hard look, then went over, not bothering to slow down. He thought he might have seen something like awe in the Senator’s amazing optics, but it was gone too fast for even him to be sure about it. Blurr gingerly sat down and picked up his discharged cup of Energon. “You said I have nothing to fear.” He said softly. “But you didn’t say you didn’t want anything. What do you want?”_

_The Senator looked down at his own cup, obviously thinking hard about how he should phrase his request. It made the blue racer raise an optic ridge. He had never seen a Senator appear so out of his element. “There is no way to make this sound how I intend for it to sound.” He finally muttered. Saying that out loud seemed to give him all the courage he needed, though, since Shockwave gave a nod before facing Blurr’s gaze. “You can decline if you want to, and I ask you to do so if it is the case.”_

_He waited until Blurr nodded, then continued. “I have followed the races for a very long time, since before I became Senator, to be honest. And when you appeared, I felt… intrigued. Blurr, it would be my honour if you would agree to go to a dinner with me. I wish to get to know you better, the true you, not the one you present to the Commonwealth. However, I only want to do this if you are willing, not because you feel pressured. It would pain me if you were to agree to this only because you felt obliged. There are more than enough willing mechs and femmes to keep me company.”_

_“And if I say no?” Blurr asked, voice challenging._

_Shockwave held his gaze. “Then you could leave, and I will not seek you out again.” He pinged Blurr his comm number. “But I would ask you to reconsider. Should you still have the same opinion as you do now, delete the number, and I will know your decision. You won’t hear from me again. Unless you watch the news, that is.” The Senator gave a smile, but Blurr could tell that he was merely putting up a façade._

_The racer stood up. “Then I’ll just take my leave.”_

_Shockwave lowered his helm, elegant fingers playing with his cup. “Of course.”_

_Blurr nodded, eyed him for a last time, then left the hotel room. He tried to forget the hurt look on the Senator’s face. Tried to forget his beauty. Tried to forget his voice. It was distracting, especially when racing. He nearly lost grip on his control several times, just thinking of Shockwave. He tried to tell himself that the nervous flutter of his spark whenever he saw or heard Shockwave on screen was because he was afraid the Senator would use his secret to manipulate him. He deleted the comm number, but not before committing the frequency into memory._

_Two vorn later, Blurr stared at a smiling Shockwave on screen, optics shining proudly as he presented another charity case._ Frag it, _he thought, then commed the Senator._

_::Shockwave here.::_

_Blurr vented his systems. ::Senator, this is Blurr. Are you still interested in dinner?::_

***

Blurr shuttered his optics as the unbidden memory slipped into his mind. He wished he could turn back time and be back there, preventing his younger self from doing that stupid, stupid mistake. Not that Shockwave had been bad to him; on the contrary. Blurr had _fallen_ for the Senator faster than he could run. Shockwave had been everything he wanted, everything he needed. More than racing, even. But now he would gladly give his abilities to undo what had happened. 

Because it was being at Shockwave’s side that he ended up with the Decepticons. And it was the reason he had been tasked to kidnap that Praxian youngling. A tear slid down his cheek, unnoticed. Blurr hadn’t signed up for this. But he did what his bondmate wanted. 

_Even if it killed him inside._


	13. Chapter 12: Placing a Bet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They were offered complete amnesty, but first they had to confess all of their crimes. Primus, that had been one long quartex. And Jazz was afraid that he had still missed some.
> 
> Ah, whatever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!
> 
> As always, thank you for the comments and kudos, they mean a lot to me!  
> And finally, the chapter I had planned for the last update before Blurr got in the way. Brace yourselves;)
> 
> Warnings:   
> Red Alert not being paranoid when with Prowl, Jazz isn't a nice being and sticky sexual interfacing  
> If the last one isn't your thing, ctrl+f at "free servo hovering above a doorwing" to the three stars and again at "about their future" to the next three stars.
> 
> Enjoy!

“…and then I told him to lower his weapon because he wouldn’t stand a chance against me. But guess what? He didn’t.” Red Alert snorted. “He ended up in med bay, and my proposal for the new security measurements were approved of, anyways. Some mechs are just difficult.”

“Agreed. They never know when to stop. Maybe we should teach them.” Prowl said, subtle humour accompanying his glyphs. They entered the rec room and went to the Energon dispenser. Both the tactician and the security officer had the next orn off (forced vacation thanks to Ratchet) and had made plans to get their dinner together. Red Alert wanted to ‘get slagged’ to forget his crush on Inferno, his Second in Command, but Prowl was hesitant to do so. Getting drunk interfered too much with his tactical systems.

Jazz had also cancelled their ornly Energon meetings ("Dates, Prowler, they're dates"), claiming to have some emergency he needed to take care of. Prowl hadn’t questioned what the emergency was, he knew Jazz had his reasons. He always had.

“A waste of energy.” Red Alert replied. “I already tried, but it was all very futile. Besides, mechs tended to try and get back at me, and well…” He shrugged and tapped at one of his horns. “I’d rather not get called ‘Sparky’ again.”

Prowl snorted, but any reply he had was forgotten when he suddenly caught sight of a familiar frame, blue visor glinting playfully. Prowl’s spark fluttered excitedly, and the Praxian couldn’t help the happiness rushing though his systems. Then his CPU processed what he was seeing, and his systems nearly fell into a loop. _This_ was the emergency? The reason Prowl had been stood up? 

Jazz was flirting with another mech, was draped all over him. From the looks of it he seemed to have the time of his live, laughing and snuggled close to the Autobot as he was.

Then, as if the saboteur could feel his gaze, their optics found each other and it felt like a small eternity where only the two of them existed. Prowl could feel his doorwings and optics begging for Jazz to come over and spend the evening with him, but the Polyhexian turned his head instead and –

Prowl shut down his vocaliser. He would not whimper in front of his fellow Autobots, he would not show weakness. He was still SIC, he had a reputation of being icy and always in control. Even this would not influence him. So, Prowl forced himself to watch as Jazz and that other, better, more beautiful mech were kissing each other, servos caressing intimate seams. It hurt, so much. Oh, Primus above and below, _it hurt_. But Prowl merely gritted his dentae and went to the Energon dispenser. He had known how Jazz was. The saboteur never showed interest in anyone, or when he did, that interest was gone in orns. This shouldn’t have surprised him.

The Praxian turned to Red Alert, a grim look on his face. “Are you still amendable to sharing high-grade?”, asked Prowl.

Red Alert lifted an optic ridge. “Yeah, why?”

Prowl poured two cubes with strong high-grade. “I find myself open to it as well.” He tilted his helm. “I have a bottle of engex in my quarters. Shall we move it there?”

The Director of Security grinned. “Now we’re talking.”

Without looking back at the Polyhexian, Prowl moved out of the rec room, leading his friend to his quarters. Bluestreak was staying with Skids, Greenspark and Road Rage, which meant that his quarters would be empty. Prowl typed in the code and the door slid open. The two Autobots entered, and Prowl offered him his cube and a seat. 

“I will get the engex.” He said. “Make yourself at home.” 

Red Alert had nearly finished his high grade when Prowl returned after a few kliks, and the Praxian shook his head. “Maybe you should tell him how you feel. Inferno is decent enough a mech to be able to work with you should he decline. And confident enough to decline you should he not reciprocate your feelings.”

Red Alert grimaced. “And risk making a joke out of myself? I’m the fraggin’ Director of Security, Prowl, the _paranoid glitch_. I know what they say about me, I'm the one watching everyone after all. And now tell me, what do you think they’ll say about Inferno should he return my feelings? Or worse, not return them?” He opened the bottle Prowl had brought and poured himself a whole cube, then downed it in one go. “So, why did you suddenly agreed to get drunk?”

Prowl looked at his own cube, contemplative, then drank its entire content as well. He filled both of their cubes with engex and they chugged them – twice. “Jazz.” Prowl finally said as he poured another round into their cubes.

“Huh?” Red Alert made, then his processor caught up. “Oh.” He frowned. “So, the rumours are true, then? The two o’you’re fraggin’?”

Prowl glared at his engex, feeling miserable. “You think I’d be here if we were?” He asked. 

“Then what’d he do to throw your principles outta the metaphorical window?” Red Alert asked and gestured with his cube.

“Being all servy with Tracks.” Prowl took a big gulp of his drink. “Jazz’s being all flirty and overstepping boundaries with me, but in the end, he never puts up. Never. Only teasing touches and those, those – infuriatingly hot kisses…” Prowl’s engine whined. “I know his reputation, I know what they say about him, but Primus, I still _want_ him. And it’s not exactly helpful that I’m possessive of what I consider mind and heavily dislike sharing.” He downed the rest of his drink. “Why can’t I be back to being bonded? Everything was so much easier…”

Red Alert stared at him. “Wow. Never thought how much’s goin’ ‘round in your processor ‘bout this.” He eyed the bottle. “This’s good stuff. Strong.”

Prowl smirked. “Ratchet gifted me this bottle after Bluestreak emerged; one from his personal stack. It really is strong. And good.” He poured them a third round, and they downed it in one go.

“So, how ‘bout this: we finish this bottle, get th‘roughly slagged, an’ move this to th’ berth.”

“Eh?” Prowl didn’t even bother to try and mask his surprise.

“Ya, why not?” Red Alert shrugged and raised their newly filed cubes. “’M mean, not t’ do anythin’, just laze ‘round.” His optics were suddenly far too serious for someone who was drunk. “You’re one o’ th’ only mechs I trust.”

The tactician accepted and drank the contents of his own cube. Doing nothing he could do. He had never ‘faced anyone just for pleasure, (with one exception involving a very, _very_ talented femme – his valve clenched by the mere thought of her) and the mere thought was uncomfortable. But if Red Alert only wanted some cuddling... “Alright.” He filled their cubes again. “Sounds fine with me.”

Red Alert grinned. “Issa date then, m’Lord.”

Prowl laughed. It was freeing, really. A few breems later, the empty bottle was standing vigil on the table in the empty living room, while Prowl and Red Alert cuddled. At one point, the Security Director tried to get something from Prowl’s nightstand, but the high-grade interfered with his vestibular and motor control, and the red and white mech collapsed on top of the Praxian. Red Alert quickly regained his senses and rolled off his friend before Prowl could even communicate his discomfort.

“Sorry.” Red Alert commented. “’M sorry.”

The Praxian chuckled, his vents stuttering. “No problem. Now shu’up, wanna sleep… need some defraggin’…”

“Pushy lordlin’.” Red Alert grumbled, but fell silent. It didn’t take long for the two mechs to fall into deep recharge.

***

Prowl onlined to the carrier of all processor aches. He groaned softly and rolled onto his back, wings twisting painfully. Yelping, he tried to lie on his stomach, but partly landed on someone else. He froze. Someone else? Prowl shot up, cursed colourfully and quite creatively in High Praxian as his processor ache worsened, then stared at the mech next to him. What was Red Alert doing in his berth?

“Stop making so much noise.” The Security Director complained, then he himself sat up abruptly, staring at the tactician. His field was filled with confusion and he looked around with wide optics. “What happened?”

Prowl raised an optic arch. “You do not remember?” He chuckled. “Well, I am not surprised. With as much engex that you had a shuttle could have gotten drunk from.”

“You’re not even half as funny as you think you are.” Red Alert replied dryly. “So, this place got showers? I feel the strange need to clean myself.” 

“I have my own.” Prowl said. “Do you mind taking one together? I have always difficulties with reaching the inside of my doorwings.”

“Yeah, why not?” Red Alert’s engine revved. “You up for some tactile?” He asked with a grin.

Prowl shook his head, amused. “Thank you for the offer.” He said. “But I am uncomfortable with interfacing when not in a relationship.”

“My condolences.” Red Alert shrugged, and climbed off the berth. “Now move, lazy, we haven’t got all orn.” And with those glyphs, he turned around to proceed to the washracks.

A few breems later, the two mechs entered the rec room, only to synchronously flinch as the noise translated into hot pain in their processors.

“One klik.” Red Alert ground out. “I got some meds for these blasted processor aches.”

“You may pick a table.” Prowl replied softly. “I will join you momentarily with our Energon.” Trusting that Red Alert would do as suggested, the Praxian went over to the dispenser and filled a cube for his friend (he had memorised the Security Director’s preferences quite some time ago), he allowed his processor to try and restore his faulty memory files.

A few were irreversibly corrupted, but the bits and pieces he received painted a clear picture about the previous evening. Groaning, Prowl offlined his optics and let his doorwings droop. He wouldn’t touch that particular brand of engex ever again. Ever.

“Heya, Prowler.” A very familiar and cheery voice chirped. 

Prowl flinched at the loud sound and his doorwings jerked up into a protective position. “Jazz.” He greeted the other black and white. Belatedly, he noticed that Red Alert’s cube was already filled and placed his own into the dispenser. He could feel the bemusement in Jazz’s field, but the saboteur didn’t say anything else.

“Ya’re a’right?” Jazz asked in a quieter tone, a servo reaching out to brush it against Prowl’s arm.

Prowl moved his arm out of the Polyhexian’s reach and took hold of his and Red Alert’s Energon. “Merely a processor ache, nothing to worry about.” He replied, then turned around, optics searching where his red and white friend was sitting.

“Ya sure?” Jazz asked, concern bleeding both into his voice and field.

“Yes.” Prowl finally found Red Alert and went over, silently offering Red Alert his Energon. 

“Primus and the Guiding Hand, I need this badly.” The Security Director sighed, strewing a dark green powder into his drink. He offered the Praxian a small package. “Anti-hangover drug. Ratchet doesn’t give you any, but First Aid’s quite generous if you know how to ask.”

Prowl accepted the medicine thankfully and poured the powder into his own Energon. The taste didn’t change, but the effects of the drug were immediate. Prowl sighed, wings flapping happily before he locked them back into a neutral position. Without the helmache he felt immediately better and his tac-net and battle computer quickly processed the data he had received but until then not been able to work out.

“Better.” Red Alert smiled. “So, about last night–”

“Las’ night? Do tell.” Prowl and Red Alert looked up as Jazz sat down on an empty chair on their table, visor bright and a grin on his lips. The saboteur lounged in his seat, looking far too comfortable. “Saw ya leave t’gether.”

“We are friends.” Prowl said pointedly, taking a sip from his Energon. “Though I am surprised you saw that, preoccupied as you were.”

Red Alert coughed.

Jazz’s visor dimmed, a pout appearing on his face. “Preoccupied? ‘M Head o’ Spec Ops, mech, I _notice_ things. An’ it’s not as if Tracks could keep me _preoccupied_.”

“If you say so.” Prowl said, then turned to Red Alert. “If you excuse me, there is work that needs to be done.”

Red Alert frowned. “It’s your orn off, Prowl.”

The Praxian stood up and turned around. “Since I am responsible for our shifts, I just changed the schedule. Red, Jazz.”

Prowl tried not to think about the hurt look on the Polyhexian’s face, half obscured by a dim, blue visor. Really, it was Jazz’s business if he wanted to berth the entire base. But Prowl refused to be just another conquest, interesting enough for some fragging, then cast aside like a broken toy.

***

Jazz stared after Prowl’s retreating form, the longing so obvious on his faceplate that it broke Red Alert’s spark. The two of them were ridiculous. Red had known that Prowl was attracted to the Prime’s Third, but until last night he had never thought that the Praxian’s feelings ran so deeply. And since Jazz was known in the army to happily accept anyone willing to share pleasure, it had been so strange watching him chase after the monochrome tactician.

Many had assumed it was the thrill of the chase, or wanting someone who refused him repeatedly, but it was clear to Red now that neither was the case. Jazz _wanted_ Prowl. Maybe even had _feelings_ for the Praxian. And honestly, Red could see exactly why the Polyhexian was attracted to the icy Lord.

Prowl had a good spark, was intelligent and, admittedly, quite beautiful. Nearly every Cybertronian – or really, bots all over the Commonwealth – had at least once fantasized about either Flyers or Praxians. There was simply something about winged – either sensory or flying ones – bots that held an inrresistible appeal. Especially Seekers and Praxians. And the way Prowl held himself – it really showed his royal heritage.

Yes, Red Alert totally understood why Jazz could have developed feelings for the tactician. Maybe he should add his own bet in Smokescreen’s ever-growing betting pool. Especially now that he knew that the attraction was mutual and not simply a disinterested aristocrat and a chase-thrilled agent. And because Prowl was his friend, _best friend_ , Red Alert would do something he would never have thought he would do: Meddling.

“You know, if you want to get somewhere with him, don’t fool around with other mechs.”

Jazz flinched at the glyphs, and Red Alert watched with amusement as the saboteur came out of wherever his processor had been. “Wha’ d’ya mean?”

Red sighed and gestured at the rec room. “Tracks. Yesterorn, you were all over him, kissing him right in front of Prowl. What do you think Prowl would think that means, especially with a mech of your reputation?”

Jazz looked down. “I didn’ frag ‘im, if tha’ makes it better. I jus’ couldn’. He ain’t no Prowler, none o’em are. I jus’ wanted t’ unwind a bit, ya know. Also, Tracks needed some cheerin’ up.” He glanced at Red. “Haven’ been in anybody’s berth bu’ m’own fer… I dunno, nearly since Prowl asked me t’ be Blue’s sire.”

The Security Director stared at him. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” Jazz replied miserably. “I thought it’d go ‘way after some time, bu’ instead found m’self fallin’ in lo–” Jazz broke off, visor brightening. “Gotta go!”

Red Alert watched the black and white spec ops agent not-really flee the room and chuckled into his Energon. His work was done, and he sent his bet to Smokescreen. Those two would be interfacing by the end of the orn.

::Not cool, Red!:: Came Smokescreen’s reply over comm, his glyphs whiny. ::That’s my carrier you’re talking about!::

::Don’t act all innocent with _me_ , youngling. You’re forgetting who’s the mech behind the cameras.:: Red chuckled when he didn’t receive a reply.

“You seem quite happy for someone who just chased away both the Second _and_ Third in Command.” A deep, friendly voice rumbled. Red’s spark danced happily in its sparkcasing, and he nearly jumped in his seat as he recognized what his spark had already known. Inferno was standing next to him, a cube of Energon in his servo. “Is this seat taken?”

Red stared at the tall red mech, then at the seat, and shook his head. He didn’t trust his vocaliser not to glitch out. Inferno gave him a bright smile, and Red’s spark pulsated contently. _Oh, Primus_ , he whimpered mentally. He wouldn’t survive breakfast if Inferno kept looking at him like that.

***

Prowl was in his office. Of course he was, that mech was rarely somewhere else. _Especially_ when he was on duty. Which was kind of sad, but on the other servo made it pretty easy to track him down. It was predictable. _Reliable_. A constant that Jazz craved to have. 

Life hasn’t been easy on Jazz, and he had learned his lesson about caring about someone and trusting others too much very early. _Both of them_ had, really. They had lost their creators in a ‘robbery gone wrong’. ‘They’ being Jazz and his five breems older spark-split twin, Ricochet. The two of them had been with friends when someone had broken into their house, surprised their creators and killed them in cold blood. And even though the authorities hadn’t said it, both Jazz and Ricochet knew that their sire had been raped.

Their uncle who should have taken care of them had disappeared, and it was after their mechlings upgrades that they had found out that it had been their uncle who killed their three creators. He had always lusted after their sire, his brothers' sparkmate, and had used that opportunity to take what he wanted. And then he took off with all of their values and shanix, leaving his nephews to fend for themselves.

Jazz and Ricochet had sworn to get revenge. For their creators and for themselves. Practicing first how to pickpocket and open locks without leaving marks, they soon wanted greater challenges, and greater challenges they got. They obeyed two rules: never leave your twin behind unless told, and if you get caught, never, _ever_ tattle on your twin.

Of course they got caught; many, many times even. But they took it as lessons and got better, never repeating a mistake. And they got good. Extremely good. At least they _thought_ they were good, until they made the mistake of robbing the wrong mech. Unlike the previous times they had been caught, however, this mech took them to his home. Once there, he stripped the twins of any mods they had and trained them, giving them back their mods piece by piece as they advanced. He trained them in every martial art they wanted to learn, and gave them their final upgrades after they mastered their first martial art. Both Jazz and Ricochet might have left their path of hatred and revenge for their teacher, Master Yoketron. But about a hundred vorns after they had completed their training, Yoketron was betrayed by Lockdown, a former student of his, and Jazz and Ricochet swore revenge for their their master – after they had avenged their creators.

With their new abilities, they started to offer their services to other mechs, which was also when the killing started. Killing was easy. Just on small twitch of the finger, pulling the trigger, and BAM! – one dead mech. Though they stayed away from creators with sparklings.

Only one orn, they got bored and wanted more. So, the torturing started. While Jazz – or Meister, as he was known in those circles – preferred hardlining and taking a bot’s spark (processors and sparks didn’t lie), Ricochet – or Stepper as their clients called him – liked to first mutilate his victims and then, depending on his charge, spike them.

But no matter their method, they always delivered. They even once had a job in Praxus, which was when Jazz had first seen Prowl. The Praxian had worked with a partner – Chromedome if Jazz wasn’t completely mistaken – and tried to solve a double murder Jazz and Ricochet had committed. Only, Jazz hadn’t known that Prowl was high nobility and they had to leave very soon, which unfortunately had meant that he had been unable to pay the monochrome enforcer a visit. As far as Jazz knew, Prowl had never solved that crime. And if he had, well, they had been Black Ops for the CSS by then.

But, Praxus had been a few thousand vorns after the Polyhexian twins had finally achieved their revenge. Nearly two hundred and seventy vorns after Yoketron’s death, Jazz and Ricochet had found out where their uncle was. They had taken their sweet time in flaying him, stripping him down to his protoform before slowly draining his Energon. His begging had been a sweet, sweet aria to Jazz’s audials, and they had enjoyed every klik of that evening.

One orn, however, the unavoidable had happened, and they had been caught. It had been about eight thousand and six hundred vorns after Yoketron’s death, and it had been a set up from the beginning. Instead of being sent to prison, they were offered the opportunity of joining the Cybertronian Secret Service (or CSS for short). Of course they had accepted. They were offered complete amnesty, but first they had to confess all of their crimes. Primus, that had been one long quartex. And Jazz was afraid that he had still missed some.

Ah, whatever.

Both of them had risen quickly through the ranks, until Jazz had been SIC for Spec Ops and Ricochet had been in command of the sharpshooters. But unlike Jazz, who could change his looks, Ricochet was forced to stay with his white-black-orange colour scheme, orange visor covering golden optics (the opposite of Jazz’s silver ones) on an orange faceplate. On his chestplates and doorwings pranged flames.

Oh yeah, the doorwings. Jazz snickered. There had been a small accident involving Ricochet, Jazz and Wheeljack, somehow altering both Jazz’s and Ricochet’s frames, giving them doorwings. Only unlike Jazz and to his endless consternation, Ricochet could _not_ hide them. Also, Jazz might have a thing for wings, but not on his own back, thank you very much. They were too much of a liability.

Jazz sighed. Ricochet was currently being extracted from a deep undercover mission and he really hoped his twin would return to Iacon soon. Jazz missed him. And as unlikely as it sounded, out of the two of them, Jazz was the one who worried more. On the other servo, Ricochet had a better sense of when to not do something; Jazz would just accept a new challenge.

Arriving at the SIC’s office door, Jazz hacked it open and waltzed into the room, not bothering to announce himself. He was the only one to enter this way, anyways. 

“You can immediately show yourself out of the office again. I am in no mood for your games.” Prowl’s icy voice greeted him, and wow, Prowl had never sounded this cold before.

Jazz ignored the Praxian and stepped up to the desk, patiently waiting until Prowl looked up. “Two things.” Jazz said. “I didn’ frag Tracks, haven’ fragged anyone since ‘bout when ya asked me t’ be Blue’s sire. ‘S when I noticed tha’ there’ll be no one else I’d be interested in.” Jazz sighed heavily. “An’ second, if this’s t’ work b’tween th’ two o’us, ya should know th’ truth ‘bout me. Th’ whole, ugly truth. ‘Bout wha’ I did an’ got ‘way with.”

Prowl stared at him with wide optics. “What?”

Jazz chuckled and offered him a datapad he had just unsubspaced. “Read. Or I’ll jus’ tell ya, don’ really care either way.”

“Tell me.” Prowl said. “I want to hear it from you.”

“’Kay.” Jazz flopped down into one of the chairs and propped his pedes on the tactician’s desk. “It all started when m’ twin an’ I stayed with friends an’ our creators got killed…”

***

It had taken the reminder of the morning to tell his story, and the longer Jazz had talked, the quieter Prowl had gotten. ‘Worried’ didn’t even begin to describe how the Polyhexian felt. He started to doubt his decision, afraid that Prowl wouldn’t want him around anymore, wouldn’t want him around Bluestreak. Because let’s face it, Jazz was a murderer, a torturer, an assassin and a professional liar. Who would want someone like that around their sparkling?

Finally, Jazz reached the end, but Prowl remained silent. The saboteur started shifting in his chair after a breem and broke the silence after five. “Prowler? Wanna say somethin’?”

Prowl slowly released air from his vents, put his elbows on his desk and twined his fingers together, then placed his chin on top of his servos. “I knew about who you were from Optimus.” He admitted quietly. “It was hard to believe, but eventually I had to face the truth about what Special Operations is. And as much as I dislike the thought of Spec Ops, it is the blunt truth that we need mechs like you to do the missions that others would not do. It is vital for war effort. And while I have not taken anyone’s spark or hardlined with someone for information, I have both killed and gave the order for torture.” A small smile appeared on the Praxian’s face. “But I feel honoured that you told me about this.”

Jazz grinned, relief filling his EMF. “Well, good t’ know tha’ I don’ have t’ worry ‘bout there bein’ problems in command.”

Prowl chuckled. “Indeed.” Suddenly, the Praxian lowered his helm. “You did not interface with Tracks?” 

Jazz straightened, a serious expression on his faceplate. “No, I haven’. Least not in th’ las’ two hundred vorns or so.”

“Oh, good.” Prowl bent over his datapads.

Jazz smirked. Oh no, he wouldn’t. “Why’d ya ask?”

The Praxian stilled. “Merely to clarify your statement in the beginning.”

“Hmmm, sure.” Jazz hummed and stood up. “I think tha’ tha’s a lie. I think tha’ ya’re interested ‘cause ya’re jealous o’ every mech I ‘face. Or, potentially ‘face.” Prowl’s vents hitched, and Jazz’s smirk widened. _Bingo_. “Bu’, y’know, if ya e’er wanna frag jus’ lemme know.”

Prowl stiffened, and his helm jerked up. “No, thank you.” His voice wavered the teensy-tiniest bit, and anyone without Jazz’s audial horns would have missed that. 

The Polyhexian walked around the desk and stretched. Jazz could feel blue optics following his movements and doorwings perked with interest. He grinned. “C’mon, Prowler, we both know tha’ ya want this.” He rested his servos on the arm rests and bent over the Praxian. A strange position, since the Praxian was about half a helm taller than Jazz and usually he was the one looking up to Prowl.

“I do not.” Prowl replied icily. “Especially not in my office, nor while we are on duty.”

“Oh? Bu’ after duty in yer berth?” Jazz grinned and leaned further in, lips mere inches from Prowl’s. “We’ve already ‘steblished tha’ ya want me. I know ya’re watchin’ me when ya think I don’ pay attention, an’ we both know how this’ll end. Jus’ take how ya’re reactin’ righ’ now. So why, pray tell, are ya so ‘gainst this?”

“For one, because I do not do flings.” Prowl replied, spark beating faster and processor spinning at the proximity to the saboteur. He raked his processor for more reasons, but it somehow seemed to spin out of control. “Second, you do not do relationships.”

“I could change tha’. A’ready did it, more o’less.” Jazz said easily. “Ya’re worth it.” He added softly. “Ya’re not th’ only one who’s affected by this.” He moved his helm down to nuzzle Prowl’s neck, and the Praxian lifted his head to grant Jazz better access as he pressed soft kisses to the exposed cables. “So, any other protests ya got? ‘Cause I jus’ countered those ya had.”

Prowl’s cooling fans kicked on, and venting suddenly was so hard. His CPU was unable to formulate a coherent thought, leaving the tactician floundering. “I – I… Th-Third, we are – ah!” Prowl gasped as the Polyhexian bit down at an energon line before licking it soothingly. “Jazz, we are, ugh, Second and Third, we c-cannot be each other’s weakness–”

“Ya couldn’ be a weakness, an’ I know ya wouldn’ let feelings influence yer desicions. ‘Sides, if somethin’ were t’ happen t’ ya, I’d already be compromised – relationship or no relationship.” Jazz breathed against the corner of his lips, then shifted to claim Prowl in a gentle kiss. The Praxian moaned and opened his mouth, letting the insistent glossa enter. Jazz pressed a leg between Prowl’s and shifted his grip, one of his arms curling around his waist to pull him closer, the free servo hovering above a doorwing. 

Prowl gave a breathy laugh and pulled back to meet Jazz’s visor, a painful smile on his lips. “You are–” But before Prowl could finish what he wanted to say, Jazz switched on the magnets in his servos, sending gentle impulses into the sensory panel.

Lips went slack and formed a surprised ‘o’, then Prowl keened and arched his back, pressing his pelvic plates against Jazz’s leg. His optics were wide and bright with pleasure. The saboteur grinned and let his servo wander, enjoying the moaning and panting it earned him. Prowl soon melted into an uncoherent puddle of pliant metal in his arms under his ministrations. Laughing softly, Jazz let his servos roam over those regal sensor panels, learning how to play them as he played his instruments.

“Jazz…” Prowl moaned his designation, pleading, and it was the sweetest music in the saboteur’s audial receptors.

“Dontcha worry, sweetspark.” Jazz pressed a chaste kiss to lush, silver lips. “I’ve gotcha.” He straddled the Praxian’s legs and wiggled a bit, grinding his hips. Prowl gasped and Jazz greedily swallowed the sound, then he moved his helm to white audio discs. “I’ve heard Praxian’s can overload jus’ from havin’ their wings manipulated. Let’s see if tha’s true, shall we?”

Prowl gave a high-pitched whine and his wings jerked in Jazz’s grip, twitching back and forth as if he couldn’t decide whether to move away or get closer to the Polyhexian’s servos. The saboteur chuckled softly and watched those enticing sensor panels for a few kliks, then decided that he had tormented the tactician long enough and intensified the magnetic pulses coming from the mods in his servos. Slumping into his seat, Prowl shuttered his optics as he went limp from pleasure. He hadn’t overloaded yet, Jazz could tell, but he was probably very close, going by the electricity arching between them.

Gently kneading the plating, Jazz tried to stimulate every single inch of those magnificent wings at least once, before returning to the spots that had Prowl either arch with a soundless cry or melt even more beneath his ministrations. It was just so _fascinating_ how many responses Jazz could elicit from the mech beneath him, just from touching the _same spot differently_. His own wings definitely weren’t the real deal.

The best spots, however, were the doorhinges. That would earn Jazz breathless, little mewls that he was absolutely in love with and just couldn’t get enough of. Which was why he concentrated on getting Prowl to make them again and again, until the Praxian’s wings twitched and fluttered uncontrollably as he arched his back, mouth slack with a soundless cry as he overloaded.

Jazz leant back and watched Prowl at the peak of his pleasure, committing the picture the proud Praxian made into memory. It was absolutely mesmerizing. After admiring the view for a moment, Jazz buried his face into Prowl’s neck and purred softly, gently stroking the cooling plating to help the Praxian come down from his overload. He tenderly brushed his thumb across the Praxian’s cheek, patiently waiting until his lover regained consciousness. Blue optics flickered before onlining. Prowl stared at Jazz, then he lowered his helm.

“I meant wha’ I said.” Jazz said softly. “I want ya, Prowler, an’ not merely fer a good frag. I want more than tha’. I want a relationship; one hundred percent commitment.” When Prowl still didn’t look at him, Jazz sighed and placed two fingers beneath the Praxian’s helm, gently tilting it upwards. He waited until Prowl met his optics, then continued. “True, at th’ beginnin’ I jus’ wanted t’ berth ya, but th’ longer ya denied me, th’ more I gotta know ya, th’ more I wanted t’ be with ya because of who ya are. Wanna be with me?”

Prowl looked at Jazz’s earnest and honest expression and knew that he was lost, lost to the mech in front of him. His processor still had problems formulating a coherent thought, so instead of answering he leaned forward, capturing the saboteur’s mouth in a chaste kiss. He moaned softly as the charge that had accumulated in the saboteur stung his lips ever so slightly.

“Alright.” He finally said. “On two conditions.”

“Go on.” Jazz was back to being unreadable.

“One, we are exclusive except for when your missions call for it, and two, interfacing and intimate touching is restricted to our quarters. I am no fan of public displays of affection, nor having interface _in my office_.”

“Aw, c’mon!” Jazz complained. “Pits yeah t’ th’ first condition, bu’ th’ second one? Ya’re takin’ all th’ fun outta this!” Prowl merely raised an optic ridge and Jazz sighed. “Fine. Bu’ this orn after yer shift ya come t’ my quarters an’ ya’ll be on time.”

The Praxian captured the saboteur’s lips in a passionate kiss. “Promised.”

***

High Command had gathered on Optimus’ behalf. And not just some present and the others as holograms, no, all of them were actually here. All twenty-four ‘bots, eleven Generals (one of them was a Commander as well), twelve Lieutenant-Generals and one Prime. Or they would all be here soon enough, anyways. Four bots were still missing: Prowl, Jazz, Wheeljack and Ratchet. Several mechs and femmes were talking quietly while they were waiting for them.

Optimus used the time to catch up with Elita. The two of them shared a long history and where so close most Cybertronians thought they were a couple. They weren’t, though. The petite pink femme was far too strong-willed and independent to fall in love with a mech like Optimus, and Optimus… the Prime grimaced as his spark flared and pushed the thought of his love-life aside.

“You alright?” Elita asked, expression worried.

Optimus smiled at her. “Quite fine. I was merely thinking about personal relationships.” 

“Ah.” Elita grinned. “Are the rumours about the two of us still going around?”

“They are. And despite my best efforts, some mechs are simply too stubborn to accept the truth.” Optimus shook his helm. “I do not understand why it is so unacceptable that you are my Amica Endura and not my Conjunx.”

“Hmm.” She chuckled. “I’m not tall and male enough to be your Conjunx.” 

“Elita.” Optimus said softly. 

Elita sighed, then placed a servo on his arm. “You’ll have to face it sooner or later, Orion. You can’t run away from your past, it has the nasty habit of catching up with you.”

Optimus vented deeply and looked away. “I know. But…” He sighed. “I can’t deal with it, not yet.”

The femme looked at her Amica with worried optics, then gently squeezed his arm. “Alright. If you need me, though, once you finally decide the time has come–”

“You, Ratchet and Ironhide will be there, I know.” Optimus smiled fondly. “Truly, I do not know what I did to deserve the three of you.”

“Just being you is more than enough.” Elita replied.

Prowl chose that moment to arrive, looking as aloof and serene as always on the first glance, but on the second look… Optimus didn’t know _what_ it meant, but the Praxian looked different. The tilt of his wings was the tiniest bit more relaxed, his paint was a bit chipped on the arms and servos, and his field wasn’t as tightly drawn in and cold as usual.

His icy blue optics caught sight of Optimus, and he came over in calm, measured strides. “Prime,” he said in greeting, wings dipping in respect. “General Elita. It is good to see you.”

The pink femme smiled. “You, too, Commander.”

Prowl gave a curt nod, then turned to Optimus. “Jazz excuses himself, but he will be late. He had to accept an incoming transmission from one of his operatives.”

Optimus sighed. “Then we will wait for him since it was the information he had gathered that we need to discuss.”

“…of me, I need to see my patient!” Everyone turned to the door at Ratchet’s growl, several wincing about what it implied.

“Nope.” Wheeljack replied cheerfully, immune to his sparkmate’s grumpiness and threats. “Ambulon and Pharma are taking care of him, you’ll stay here for this meeting.” 

Ratchet huffed and crossed his arms, a deep scowl on his face. “I swear on your life, ‘Jack, Primus help you if my patient dies. I will dismantle you and–”

“Frag him merciless?” Chromia asked, a smirk on her lips. She dodged the wrench and laughed, hiding behind her bondmate. Ironhide merely vented and gave a long-suffering sound. 

“Ratchet, please refrain from bodily harming my Command staff and your bondmate, if you please.” Optimus said pleasantly, a small smile on his faceplates. It was refreshing to see his troops in such a good mood (except for Ratchet, but then the medic was always grumpy).

Ratchet opened his mouth, but before he could answer, Jazz waltzed into the room, his trademark smirk adorning his face. The medic snapped his mouth shut, but he sent his annoyance over their Amicae bond and a glare at the Prime before sitting down next to his sparkmate.

In the meantime, Jazz had sauntered over to Prowl, tweaked his left doorwing and then danced over to where Mirage was standing before the Praxian could as much as growl at him. Optimus raised an optic ridge at the blatant molestation of his SIC, but since said mech didn’t complain, he let it slide. 

“Now that we are finally all present, let’s begin with this meeting. General Jazz was able to gather some important intel that he thought warranted a full gathering of High Command. General, if you please?”

“Sure thing, bossbot.” Jazz grinned lazily, but then his expression morphed into something serious. It immediately had everyone on high alert. Easy-going, happy-go-lucky Jazz was _serious_? “I was contacted a few joors ago by two o’ m’ operatives tha’re currently in deep-cover. Both gave me information along similar lines from very secure sources, bu’ I’ll send someone t’ verify it one las’ time, anyways.” Jazz vented deeply. “Several energon mines and lakes’ve run dry. Shockwave’s run simulations tha’ve been confirmed by Perceptor an’ his division. In a few thousand vorns, Cybertron’ll no longer’ve enough Energon for her inhabitants, in a few hundred thousand there won’t be any at all.”

Silence. 

Then – 

Several bots started to talk, one louder than the other to be heard. 

“Silence!” Optimus bellowed, and the Autobots immediately quieted down. Optimus nodded, then turned to the saboteur. “Are you sure the sources are to be trusted?”

Jazz gave a pained smile. “With m’life, OP. One o’em’s been compromised, I jus’ talked t’ him. He’s been successfully extracted an’ on his way here.”

“With your life?” Red Alert asked with a frown. “Who are they?”

“Th’ one compromised is m’twin, Ricochet.” Jazz replied with a smirk. “Th’ other one I won’ tell, she’s still out in th’ field.”

“Fair enough.” Optimus said, cutting off Red Alert’s protests. “Anything else you have to tell us, or can we move on to discussing Cybertron’s dwindling resources?”

“Rumours, only.” Jazz said. “Bu’ it appears as if good ol' Meg’s searching for th’ Allspark. Thinks it’ll solve his problems. I already set an operative on it.”

“Alright. Keep us updated. The Allspark must not fall into Megatron’s servos, it would mean Decepticon victory and I dare not imagine what it would entail for Cybertron.” _Or me._

“As ya wish, OP.” Jazz replied and put his pedes onto the table. Prowl immediately pushed them off, glaring at the saboteur. 

The meeting then turned to the less grave topics – at least in Optimus’ opinion. A frown remained on his faceplate nonetheless as he started to make plans to discuss later with his Head Tactician about their future.

***

Prowl moaned and tilted his head back to grant Jazz better access to his neck cables. The moment they had entered the Polyhexian’s quarters they had been all over each other. It was still amazing for Prowl how a few kisses could get him so _revved up_. He could probably overload just like that. Chuckling softly, the saboteur continued to gently nibble at an Energon line on Prowl’s neck, one that already had small dents from earlier this orn. His servos roamed freely over the tactician’s frame, dipping into transformation seems for a teasing touch before moving on, leaving Prowl writhing.

He gently kissed the line he had been giving small bites, then trailed his lips back up to claim Prowl in a deep, passionate kiss. Prowl gave a small whimper and pressed himself against the Polyhexian, winding his arms around the saboteur’s warm frame. They stumbled blindly through Jazz’s quarters, not caring if they knocked over decoration, and Jazz led Prowl to his berth where he spread the doorwinged mech out like a feast. 

He took off his visor and let his silver optics roam over the beautiful mech beneath him, then climbed onto the berth himself. It was easy to get lost in those bright, icy blue optics as he pressed a knee between Prowl’s legs to nestle himself in the intimate cradle of white thighs. Jazz quirked a smirk and rolled his hips, pressing against heated interface plating. 

A soft gasp escaped Prowl and Jazz grinned, chastely claiming a kiss from silver lips. Kissing Prowl was addictive, not only because the Praxian was an excellent kisser, one of the best Jazz had ever had as a partner, but also because he tasted so _sweet_ , contrary to the acidic Energon he preferred. 

Their servos started to roam and explore, black ones full of confidence and installed magnets pulsing lightly, white ones shyer and gentler. Jazz hummed and kissed Prowl again, this time deeper and with glossa. His left servo crept down and rubbed against Prowl’s interface cover, and the doorwinged mech arched his back, pushing into the touch. 

Without any further prompting, the cover slipped aside, lubricant already dripping from the valve. Jazz smiled against Prowl’s mouth. His fingers traced the soft folds of sensitive protoform and gathered lubricant, then travelled up to circle the anterior node. Prowl keened and bucked his hips, doorwings twitching. Jazz didn’t even bother fighting the triumphant feeling. He pressed his thumb against the node and massaged it with small circles, eliciting the most interesting sounds from his lover between the endless litany of ‘Jazz, Jazz, Jazz’ against his lips.

A white servo rose to caress Jazz’s cheek, but with a wide smirk, the Polyhexian caught both of Prowl’s servos and pressed them against the headboard of the berth. “Hold onto tha’ an’ don’ move ‘em.”

Prowl stared at him, then he keened and his hips jerked, and Jazz had to bite his lips at the alluring image his lover made. Primus, but if this mech wasn’t _hot_.

With the problem of the Praxian’s distracting servos gone, he raised his free arm to rest next to Prowl’s helm, taking most of his weight. His servo gently stroked Prowl’s cheek, optics never leaving that beautiful face. He watched Prowl for any sign of discomfort as he gently pushed a finger into the slick valve, his thumb never ceasing to massage the node. White lips fell open and Prowl panted softly, optics shuttering. Jazz smiled to himself and slowly moved his finger in and out in perfect timing with his strokes. 

“Ya a’ight?” He asked softly. “Tell me t’ stop if ya ain’t. Or if I do somethin’ ya don’ like.”

Prowl onlined his optics, and he raised his ridges at the Polyhexian. “I will. But I will not be alright, if you do not – _ahh!_ ”

Jazz had added a second finger with a quick thrust and flexed them inside Prowl’s valve while gently flicking the brightly glowing anterior node. He gave the Praxian a smirk, but Prowl was staring dazedly at the ceiling, mouth slack. The smirk morphed into a fond and tender smile, and Jazz gently scissored his fingers when he pulled them out, thrusting deeply back into the valve and repeating his motions. Prowl gave soft gasps every time Jazz pushed his fingers into him, and it was sweet, sweet music to the Polyhexian’s audio horns. He stole a soft kiss from lush lips, then stilled his thumb and added a third finger into the tight valve. 

Prowl moaned and lifted his hips to meet Jazz’s thrust, his optics unshuttering. They met silver ones and he smiled, a small, soft thing that had Jazz’s spark melting. “I won’t break.” Prowl murmured, legs spreading invitingly and a servo coming up to caress Jazz’s cheek. “Please.” 

Jazz vented deeply and smiled. “Alright. But put that servo back to where I told you to leave it.” 

The Praxian snorted but did as asked. He quirked an optic ridge as he wiggled his hips in invitation and Jazz couldn’t help but chuckle softly. Prowl was the best thing that had ever happened to him, he was sure of that.

Shifting his frame so that he could move between Prowl’s legs, Jazz’s interface cover slid aside to reveal an already pressurized spike. He pulled his fingers from Prowl’s valve and pressed them against silver lips in a silent demand. Prowl looked at him with amusement, then he obediently opened his mouth and his glossa darted out to flick playfully over them. His playful gaze never left the saboteur’s as his glossa once again flicked out to taste his own lubricant. Jazz’s ventilation hitched, then he pressed the fingers into Prowl’s oral cavity.

Prowl shuttered his optics as he sucked, glossa rubbing gently over them. A soft moan escaped his lips when he fully tasted himself and Jazz’s optics darkened at the arousing sight. _Primus._ This mech was going to be the death of him. After a last flick against the tip of Jazz’s fingers the Polyhexian pulled them out, then spread the oral lubricant over his spike. Icy blue optics brightened and Jazz smirked, then thrust forward, fully seating himself inside the tight vale with one smooth motion. 

Prowl cried out as he overloaded, back arching and wings fluttering erratically with open pleasure. Charge cackled over his frame, tickling the saboteur as he watched his lover consumed in pure ecstasy. Jazz tried to recall any time a berth partner had been so beautiful for him, but he couldn’t find anyone who could be compared to Prowl. 

Icy blue optics flickered as they onlined again and Prowl unconsciously shifted his hips at the feeling of _fullness_. He gave Jazz a lazy smile, and Jazz waited until he pushed his hips up in a silent demand before pulling out and thrusting in once again. Prowl moaned and locked his gaze with Jazz’s, optics bright with lust and desire. “More.” He demanded, and Jazz smirked, increasing his speed, until he was moving at a steady rhythm. “Oh, Jazz, please!” 

The Polyhexian laced their fingers together and put their linked servos next to Prowl’s helm, then started thrusting in earnest. They traded kisses filled with lust and deep affection, even though they ranged from sloppily gentle to desperate. After a particular roll of Jazz’s hips and change of rhythm, Prowl screamed as he overloaded again, throwing his head back and fluttering his wings as the Polyhexian’s spike stimulated his ceiling node with every thrust. 

Those taunt, flexing cables were too much a temptation for Jazz to let it pass, so he leaned down and bit an Energon line, enjoying the pulsating feeling between his dentae. He fragged the Praxian through his overload, relishing in the desperate cries Prowl gave him as his oversensitive valve got stimulated without respite, driving his pleasure higher and higher, until he reached his peak once more.

Prowl’s vocaliser shortened and he overloaded one last time, the callipers in his valve rippling around Jazz’s spike; massaging it until it was too much, and Jazz followed his lover over the edge, filling the Praxian with his transfluids. He caught himself before collapsing on top of his lover, venting harshly. 

_Primus, this had been_ processorblowing. 

One look told him that Prowl was out cold and he snorted softly. Figures that Prowl would leave the cleaning to him. He gently pulled out of his lover and manually closed the valve cover, his spent spike twitching at the thought of his transfluids trapped inside the other mech. 

Jazz shook his helm and unsubspaced a cloth, cleaning first Prowl then himself. He threw the cloth on the ground, not particularly caring where it landed. Then he gathered the Praxian in his arms and pulled the blankets over them. With one last kiss pressed against Prowl’s temple, Jazz fell into recharge.

***

“Okay, here’s the results.” Smokescreen was standing in the middle of the rec room, every bot off shift staring at him with anticipation. “Red Alert won when saying that Carrier and Jazz would be fragging by the dark cycle. Prime and Ratchet won by saying that it would need someone to meddle to enter a relationship and Acidlock got the time right.” He looked around. “Anyone knows here she is?”

“Probably on a mission for Jazz.” Preceptor said. “She’s SpecOps.”

“Then I’ll keep her money for now. If someone ever sees her, point her my way. And if she’s dead, tell me, ‘cause the others will get each a third of her shanix.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, those two dunderheads are finally a couple! Finally.
> 
> Now we can finally move forward with the plot with some Jazz/Prowl fluff along the way;)


	14. Chapter 13: Polyhexian Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A grin spread on orange lips, but for once Prowl had a feeling that he truly meant it. “I did. Ya surprised me, Prowl, t’ b’ honest. An’ yer creations’re adorable.” 
> 
> “I’m not!” Smokescreen and Bluestreak cried out unison, and Ricochet chuckled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all: I'm really sorry about how long it took to upload this chapter, but oh boy, university started again in October and our profs weren't kidding when they said 3rd year was going to be the hadest. At least the next three years will be easier.
> 
> I'm also sorry I haven't answered the comments yet, I'll do that right after uploading this chapter. Every single one of them is very muched loved and appreciated and a great motivation to find some time to continue this story. I just hope I can answer all of them before falling asleep, it's nearly midnight here.
> 
> Also, this chapter is really long - the longest yet, I believe. I wanted to break it in two, but because of lacking time to actually write and since I couldn't find a good point to do that, you'll just get the entire thing. The next chapters will be shorter, though. 
> 
> And fourth, I don't know when I'll be able to upload again. University's hard, as I said. 
> 
> Now that that's been said, I hope you enjoy this chapter! It's basically just fluff. Mostly.
> 
> Chapter specific warnings: Jazz's dirty mind, dinner and feelings.

Prowl stretched languorously. He felt amazing, better than in many, many vorns. His servo reached out to his left, but the other side of the berth was empty. Frowning, he onlined his optics and turned his head to make sure his servos hadn’t missed the Polyhexian who was supposed to be next to him. But no, he had been right. There was no trace of Jazz and his side of the berth was cold. 

The Praxian sighed and offlined his optics again. This wasn’t how he had imagined the morning after would be. A small notification on his HUD suddenly appeared, and Prowl exvented. He had a meeting with Ultra Magnus, Hound and Elita-One in a joor and a half. But before that, he needed to get Bluestreak from Skids and bring him to his brother who would watch him for this orn. 

“Hey there, gorgeous.” 

Prowl’s head snapped to the berthroom door where Jazz was casually leaning, a small smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. He was wearing his visor again, hiding his unique optics and handsome face. _Primus, this mech was beautiful._ And Prowl’s. The Praxian smiled and sat up, the sheets sliding from his shoulders and wings. 

“Hello.” He replied shyly. 

Jazz pushed off the doorway and came closer, his gait nearly predatorily. Prowl’s vents roared to life as he watched the Polyhexian, arousal rising in his systems. A moment later he was gently laid down, doorwings spread and splayed on display for Jazz. “So tempting.” The saboteur whispered, one servo hovering over Prowl’s left wing. Then, in contrast to his tender motions, he plundered Prowl’s mouth, claiming him thoroughly. 

Prowl moaned softly and let him do as he wanted. It felt good to relinquish control, to be the one to enjoy and not worry for once. The tactician ran one servo down the length of Jazz’s frame, the other reached up to gently massage a stubby audio horn. Jazz purred contently. 

“As pleasurable as this is,” Prowl said softly after their lips separated, “I need to get up.” Jazz’s engine growled in protest, and he leaned in to kiss the Praxian once again. “Jazz.” Prowl whispered against white lips. 

Jazz deepened the kiss, then pulled away, reluctantly. “Fine.” He pressed the crest of his helm against Prowl’s chevron. “Walk ya t’ yer office?” 

Prowl smiled and stole a chaste kiss. “That sounds good.” 

Together, they picked up Bluestreak and brought him to Side Burn. Then they went to get a cube of Energon from the officer’s mess and slowly walked to the tactical division. They talked about themselves in soft tones, mostly Prowl this time since Jazz had basically told Prowl his entire life-story the previous orn. 

“I can’t believe ya an’ ‘Raj were lovers.” Jazz shook his helm. “Ya’re so… dunno, jus’ can’t picture ya t’gether.” He tilted his head, a mischievous smirk splaying his lips. “Though I wouldn’ mind watchin’.” 

Prowl gave him a reproaching look. “Exclusive, remember?” He wiggled his wings. “Besides, Mirage and I have long since come to the accord that we are better off as friends than lovers. Yes, that also includes casual.” Prowl added as Jazz opened his mouth. “And I do not do flings.” 

“I remember.” Jazz nudged Prowl’s field with his own, sending an apology and affection. 

Prowl gave him a small smile and the Polyhexian knew he was forgiven. They arrived at Prowl’s office, and the Praxian typed in his code. The door slid open, and he turned around. “I will see you later?” There was a hopeful glimmer in his icy optics. 

Jazz grinned and glanced up and down the hallway before rising up to the tip of his pedes to steel a quick kiss from the taller mech. “Ya bet ya will.” He winked, then danced down the hallway, swaying to a melody only he could hear. Prowl shook his helm and looked after his retreating form until he couldn’t see him anymore. The noble drew a deep vent and entered his office. There was work to be done and an army to be commanded.

***

Prowl was rarely seen in the officer’s mess hall. It was the army’s general opinion that the SIC didn’t need to refuel at all, despite there being proof for the contrary. Anyways, since Prowl rarely went to the officer’s mess hall, no one expected him to show up at the regular mess hall. There was a stunned silence, but Prowl paid them no attention. His icy optics swept over the soldiers before finding what he was looking for. 

His lover waved at him and pointed at the empty seat next to him, an Energon cube already standing on the table. Accompanying Jazz were Blaster, Hound, Springer, Bluster, Trailbreaker and three mechs Prowl didn’t know. The tactician made his way over to them, and the noise level started to rise as Autobots continued with their conversations, now that they knew that no one was going to be punished. 

“Prowler! Sit down. Ya a’ready know most o’em, righ’?” Jazz smiled brightly at them. 

“I do.” Prowl’s gaze lingered on Springer before he looked at the three he wasn’t familiar with. One of them was black and white mech with red and orange flames pranging on his chest and doorwings. His faceplate and visor were orange, and it wasn’t hard to guess who he was, going with the facial features and stubby horns on his black helm. This was probably Ricochet, Jazz’s twin. 

Next to Ricochet were a mech and a femme that Prowl hadn’t seen before. Well, the turquoise and white mech with the yellow faceplate and optics did look somewhat familiar, but Prowl couldn’t pinpoint where exactly he had seen the flier before. On the other servo, the purple and white femme with the orange accents and light blue optics was definitely not someone Prowl knew. 

“Prowler, this is m’twin Rico, th’ flier’s Brainstorm an’ th’ femme’s Nautica, Brainy’s lover.” Jazz extended an arm to placed it over the back of the chair not suited for Praxians and caressed the bottom edge of Prowl’s right doorwing. 

“Jazz.” The tactician reprimanded him and lifted his wing out of his reach, then nodded at the three bots he had just been introduced to. “A pleasure.” 

“Likewise, Commander.” Nautica said, a wide smile on her faceplate. Her demeanour reminded Prowl of Jazz, and he refrained his doorwings from twitching uncomfortably. Brainstorm gave Prowl a sniffy look. The noble raised an optic ridge and returned the gaze, but a few degrees colder, and continued to stare the flier down until he finally looked away. Prowl allowed himself a small smirk. Power asserted.

Ricochet snorted. “I get why ya’re Second.” He tilted his helm at his twin, who was pouting. “An’ why Jazzy fell in love with ya.” 

Prowl felt himself heat up and he quickly took a sip of his Energon. How did he know? Jazz was frowning at his twin. “How d’ya know?” He echoed Prowl’s thought. 

Ricochet paused. “Wait, ya don’ know? It’s all over th’ gossip mill. Some mech named Smokescreen even had a bettin’ pool open concerin’ th’ two o’ ya.” 

Prowl coughed as Energon entered his vents. “Smokescreen?” He wheezed and reset his vocaliser. “Smokescreen?” He repeated, voice icy cold with fury. 

“Uh, I hope he ain’t in trouble?” Ricochet said nervously. 

“He is in more than just trouble.” Prowl said softly and rose. “If you excuse me, I need to have a word with my creation.” 

“…Creation?” Jazz’s twin echoed.

“Poor Smokey.” Trailbreaker murmured, then Prowl was out of audial reach. He heard steps coming closer but didn’t bother to turn around. 

“Wait, Prowl. Please.” Prowl exited the mess hall and walked down the hallway, then sighed and stopped. He looked at Jazz, doorwings tilted expectantly. “’M sorry ‘bout how this went.” The Polyhexian apologized softly. He glanced around, then placed his servo on Prowl’s arm. “I jus’ wanted t’ introduce ya t’ Rico an’ spend some with th’ both o’ ya.” 

Icy optics gentled. “It’s not your fault, I know that. It’s just… I am uncomfortable with being the centre of ornly gossip, especially concerning my private live.” Prowl placed his servo over Jazz’s and laced their fingers together. “How about this: you and Ricochet come for dinner tonight? I am sure Bluestreak and Smokescreen would like to meet your twin as well.”

Jazz tilted his helm, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Smokey as well?” 

Prowl growled softly. “He will have no choice, no matter the condition he will be in.” 

The saboteur chuckled softly. “Yer temper is slaggin’ sexy, y’know?” He revved his engine. “See ya later, gorgeous.” 

Prowl gave him a small, helpless smile. He lifted Jazz’s servo and kissed the back of it, then let go and watched him saunter back, hips swaying. This mech was going to be his undoing, Prowl thought as he overrode the command to activate his cooling fans.

***

Road Rage was waiting at his quarters when Prowl arrived there after his shift. Her purple doorwings wiggled happily when she saw him, and the monochrome mech gave her a small smile. He was always happy when he saw his ward, and she had been gone for a few vorns before returning yesterorn. 

“Road Rage, what a welcome surprise.” Prowl said, then entered the code to open the doors. 

The purple and orange femme smiled, wings raising with pride. “Of course I would come and see you, my Lord.” Prowl raised an optic ridge, and she smiled sheepishly. “It feels wrong to address you by your given name; you are too much of a creator to me for that.”

Prowl’s spark spun happily. “And I do not merely regard you as my ward, but a creation.” He stepped into his quarters, and beckoned the femme inside with a flick of his doorwing. “I assume your hunt was successful?” 

Road Rage grinned broadly. “Yes, it was. I captured three different mechs and gave them to Ultra Magnus to bring them to Garrus-9. He was very pleased by my catches.” 

Pride filled the older Praxian, and he nudged her doorwing with his own. “I am proud of what you have achieved. Despite my reservations about you becoming a bounty hunter, I am glad to see you enjoying your chosen profession.” He gave her another smile. While Road Rage could never replace the hole torn into his spark through Silvergrace’s deactivation, having been able to raise her to the femme she was now had soothed the pain.

“Thank you. Your approval means much to me.” Road Rage rocked on her pedes. “I have a few free joors before I am expected by General Ironhide. Is there anything I can help you with?” 

Prowl looked at her. “Do you still remember how to bake?” 

Road Rage threw him a mock-indignant look. “Of course!” 

“Well then, you can help me prepare the meal for tonight.” He said and pulled out what he needed. “Jazz’s brother is joining us for dinner.” Prowl added and went to get the necessary ingredients. 

“Jazz’s brother? I’ve heard you and Jazz are finally a couple.” 

Prowl frowned. “Finally?” 

“Yes. I mean, it was very obvious that the two of you liked each other.” Road Rage replied and went to get some bowls. “What do you want me to make?” 

The monochrome Praxian considered the effects of demanding further explanations, then decided to change the topic. It wasn’t worth debating what had happened… And he was still emotionally drained from having to take disciplinary actions against his oldest creation’s _betting pool_ as well as having to reprimand every bot partaking in this – and those had been _nearly the entire base_ , including Optimus. Yes, the _Prime_. And hadn’t that been a strange moment, lecturing his superior officer on regulations and the consequences of gambling. 

In the end, Optimus had explained him how the troops needed something to focus on apart from this ever-lasting and seemingly hopeless war, and it had reminded Prowl of Smokescreen’s confession in that back alley next to _Vector’s_ , which had led him to lessen his creation’s punishment. He still didn’t like it, but he could understand that his troops needed this for a higher morale. Whatever made them happy. 

“You could stay for dinner, if you want to.” Prowl offered softly as he cut a few edible crystals. 

There was a slight pause in Road Rage’s movement, then a slow exvent. “Thank you, but I have to decline.” Prowl frowned at her, and she shook her helm. “No matter how much I love you, and no matter how grateful I am for you raising me, I am not part of your family, not really. I know you wanted me to be a family member and I know you and Blue and even Side Burn love me dearly as well, but Smokescreen doesn’t. He thinks I am a replacement for Silvergrace, and I think he is right.” 

Prowl froze. Then, after a brief moment, he turned around and faced his adopted creation. “You are not.” 

Road Rage smiled sadly. “I know you think I am not, and I love you for that. I couldn’t have asked for someone better to raise me after my creators died. But everyone else always told me how you had just lost Silvergrace when Praxus fell, and I was nothing more than a replacement. You never mourned her, instead opted to focus on me.” She smiled again. “It’s okay. And I’m as happy as I can get in this life, which I have you to thank for. But I’m not part of your immediate family, and I would feel as an intruder when invited to family dinner with _Jazz’s_ brother. So, thank you for the offer, but I cannot come. Besides, Ironhide would get mad at me if I would bail on him.” 

Prowl opticked her for a moment, then nodded. “Alright. But we will talk about this at a later point of time, because you are very much welcome to family dinner.” 

The purple and orange femme shook her helm, but the smile was happier again and Prowl let the topic slide.

***

Dinner didn’t happen until about a few vorns later, though. First, there had been an emergency with one of Jazz’s field agents, and the saboteur had to head out himself, taking his twin with him. They had been out there for several quartexes and making sure the agent’s mess had been taken care of and made sure to actually finish the mission, before Jazz had been able to return. Ricochet had stayed in the field for another operation.

After that, there had always one of them away from Autobot HQ, or on the rare occasions they had both been in Iacon, Prowl had been preoccupied with battles or was visiting another base to make sure everything was running smoothly. 

It did give Jazz and Prowl more time to get settled in their relationship. Despite knowing each other very well, both from working together, their shared ornly meals, family dinner with Bluestreak and having told each other their back stories, being in a romantic and intimate relationship was something entirely different. 

And while Prowl would have been more than happy (and satisfied) to ‘face Jazz senseless whenever they had some alone time together, there was more to a relationship than just physical pleasure. Even if Jazz was really, _really_ talented. Just as Mirage had once promised. Prowl felt a shiver running through his frame at the mere thought of their couplings. He really regretted that he hadn’t given in to Jazz earlier. They could have had much more time together…

“Heya, lover.” 

Prowl smiled at the sensual tone Jazz used as he entered Prowl’s quarters. His wings fluttered as he turned around with a concupiscent smile. “Hello, Jazz.” He purred. White servos smoothed up black arms, then wound around the Polyhexian’s neck. Jazz chuckled, his lips quirking up on one side. It was this kind of expression that had driven Prowl mad before they had become a couple, so he bent down to claim Jazz in a passionate kiss.

“Mhmm.” Jazz hummed. But before Prowl was able to deepen the kiss and maybe get lucky before Bluestreak was returned by Red Alert, the saboteur pulled back. “Wait, Prowl.” Jazz pushed the Praxian away, ignoring the soft whine of protest. “I had a romantic evenin’ planned, y’know?” He smoothed black thumbs over silver lips. “Red’s gonna watch Blue an’ take’im t’ school t’morrow, an’ th’ two o’ us getta ‘njoy a nice date t’gether.” He pressed a chaste kiss to Prowl’s lips. “Sounds good?”

A pulse jolted though his spark and Prowl smiled shyly. “It sounds very good.” To be romanced by Jazz? Prowl couldn’t wait for whatever his lover had prepared.

“Great!” Jazz grabbed Prowl’s servo and laced their fingers together. “Let’s start with a nice walk through Iacon, ‘kay?” He dragged an amused tactician behind himself, babbling excitedly about where they could walk around depending on what they wanted to see and how Iacon was nice this time of the orn. Bots were still working or already at home to enjoy time with their families. Jazz loved to take a walk in Iacon at this time of the orn since there was always so much to see and experience and _look, Prowler, d’ya see tha’ fountain? Th’ crystals decoratin’ it were from th’ Helix Garden!_

Prowl smiled indulgently, nodded and hummed at the right moments and set on enjoying this late afternoon/evening with the exhilarated saboteur. Jazz was a well of information and gossip anyways, and if there was something Prowl loved, then it was data of any kind. His processor thrived on it and Jazz was the perfect feeder. 

“Aaanyways, we’re here.” Jazz halted in front of a classy restaurant and bounced on the tips pf his pedes. “Hope ya like Crystal City food.” 

“I do.” Prowl replied and stared at the restaurant. “But, Jazz, this is too expensive.”

That adorable-infuriating lopsided, cocky smirk appeared in Jazz’s lips. “Nah, nothin’s too expensive fer ya. Ya deserve th’ best. Sides,” He added as he pulled Prowl over to the entrance, “it’s our ten vorns anniversary, it deserves somethin’ special.”

Warmth spread through Prowl’s frame and the Praxian’s engine rumbled happily. So Jazz _had_ remembered their anniversary. The small gift in Prowl’s subspace suddenly seemed to way ten times its weight and he was glad he had gotten it. Who was he kidding? Prowl would have given Jazz the gift even if the saboteur had forgotten about their anniversary. 

A pretty black and golden femme showed them to their table, a friendly and professional smile always on her lips. She promised them that a waiter would be there in a klik, then disappeared. The table Jazz had reserved was secluded from the others due to its location around a corner and seemed to have especially be designed for romantic dinners. A crystal flower was in the middle of the table as well as an ever-burning candle. Along with the dim lighting and the soft, melodious music in the background, it set for an intimate and romantic atmosphere. Prowl very much approved. 

“Ya like it?” Jazz asked, though it sounded more like a statement than a question and his visor dimmed with alluring self-assuredness. 

Prowl smiled and gave an answer nonetheless. “I do, very much so.”

Jazz grinned. “’M glad.” 

Whatever else he wanted to add was stopped by the waiter arriving and placing two flutes with clear, bubbling green Energon in front of them. “A greeting from the kitchen. It’s a slightly sweet, copper-infused aperitif from the Crystal City. I hope you enjoy.” He gave a small bow, then left to give them time to decide about what to choose. 

“Think I’m gonna have somethin’ savoury.” Jazz mused. 

Prowl hummed. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” An cocky smirk appeared on the Polyhexian’s face. “It’ll make your taste even sweeter.”

Heat rushed to Prowl’s faceplate and he hid his face behind the menu. It took conscious effort to keep his cooling fans offline. “Jazz.” He murmured, deeply embarrassed. “Not here.” 

“Why?” Jazz cocked his helm. “’S not as if anybody ‘cept th’ waiter could hear us.” A slow smile spread on his lips and Prowl felt dread rising from his spark. “Ya know wha’ I wanna do some orn? ‘M gonna make ya sit on me in some fancy restaurant, m’ spike in yer valve, while I feed ya from wha’ever we had ordered. ‘M free servo’s gonna play with yer node th’ entire time an’ by th’ time we reach deserts, ‘m gonna make ya overload. How’s tha’ sound?”

Heat spread though Prowl, and it took even more effort to keep his frame composed instead of heating up like some cheap pleasurebot. Primus, but the effect this mech had on him. Having Jazz describe what he wanted to do to Prowl, the sultry tone he used and the expectation that Prowl would do whatever Jazz wanted… It sent shivers and jolts of electricity down the Praxian’s spinal struts. 

“Jazz…” 

Jazz gave a cocky smirk. “Yes, lover?”

Prowl’s lips twitched upwards and he shook his helm. “Choose your food.”

“O’ course.” 

Despite Jazz describing that very specific fantasy of his at the beginning, the rest of their time in the restaurant passed without any other innuendos. The Polyhexian was the perfect gentlemech; sweet, caring and funny. As far as Prowl was concerned, this had been the best date he had ever been on. 

“Thank you, Jazz.” He said softly as he scraped a bit of their shared desert on his spoon. “I had a great night.” 

“Night’s far from over, Prowler.” Jazz replied with a crooked grin. “Still got some plans. ‘S a special orn, after all.” 

Prowl smiled softly. “It is, isn’t it?” He unsubspaced the small parcel he had been carrying in his subspace for the entire orn and pushed it over to his lover. “This is for you, love. Happy ten vorns anniversary.”

A blue visor brightened and Jazz basically vibrated in his seat with excitement. “Ohhh, gift time!” He shot the tactician a sultry smirk. “I wonder what’s inside.”

“Not whatever you are thinking about.” Prowl muttered. 

Jazz winked as he carefully unwrapped the present. Once he had opened, his helm shot up. “Prowler…” His voice was thick with emotion. 

“You remember the singing crystals you gifted me with?” Prowl asked softly. “They shed a few shards, a sign that they are ready to be replanted. I already did so, but… It would have been a waste to throw the shards away. And since you always talked about these… I – I hope you like them and I was not too presumptuous, but–”

Jazz placed his free servo over Prowl’s, effectively shutting him up. “Prowler.” He said with a smile. “Ya’re ramblin’.” His gaze fell onto the other servo, where two audio horn adornments were resting. They were made of delicate blue gold with crystal shards of five different colours glittering enticingly. “Wanna do me th’ honours an’ put ‘em on?”

“Oh.” Prowl straightened and his wings perked up. “Most certainly.”

His servos were trembling as he placed the adornments on Jazz’s horns, but he managed on the first try. He tried to step back after he was done, but the saboteur reeled him in and pulled him onto his lab, a small smirk on white lips. 

“How do I look?” Jazz turned his head left and right to give Prowl an opticfull of his audio horns. “Tell me I’m pretty!”

Prowl smirked. “Not pretty, no.” Jazz’s helm jerked back with surprise and the Praxian leaned in close. “You look ravishingly beautiful, love.”

The blue visor darkened, which was all the warning Prowl got before his lips were claimed in a hard, demanding kiss. He moaned softly and opened his mouth to trace Jazz’s lips with his glossa. He wanted in, wanted to taste his lover, wanted to taste the desert from the Polyhexian’s mouth. This–

A resetting vocaliser made them pull back abruptly to stare at the waiter. “Are you finished with the desert?”

Jazz looked at the desert, looked at Prowl, then at the waiter. “Yeah, I think we are.” He held out a chip. “Jus’ waitin’ fer ya t’ come so tha’ we could pay.” 

The waiter accepted the chip with an indulgent smile. “Of course.”

***

Finally, however, Prowl had a few quiet evenings, and both Jazz and Ricochet were returning from a mission. They had arrived in Iacon a joor ago and were currently reporting to Prime, but Jazz had promised they would come to join Prowl and his creations for the evening. Prowl wasn’t really nervous. This was just Jazz coming over for dinner (as he had many times before, for Bluestreak’s sake) bringing his twin. 

However, Ricochet was Jazz’s only living relative, and Prowl didn’t want to have bad Energon between them. Also, from what Jazz had told him about his brother, Prowl was nervous as to how the darker twin fit into his family. And while, technically, taking someone’s spark or processor by force was considered rape, Jazz had usually done it for information, not _pleasure_. Ricochet on the other servo had actually _spiked_ mechs to overload, which meant he had forced himself on other bots for his pleasure, and Prowl didn’t know what to do with that fact. 

Jazz had never tried to spark somebody up. Yes, Ricochet hadn’t either, but he had spiked them against their will. Prowl set down the plates and forced himself to vent slowly. His finger dug into the table surface and he pressed his chin against his chest. Not dealing with what Barricade had done to him was coming back to him to bite him in the aft, and Prowl wished he had listened to Rung and tried to work through his issues. But what had happened, happened, and Prowl needed to deal with the fact that Jazz’s twin was a rapist and Prowl couldn’t judge him for that. 

Also, as far as Prowl knew from what Jazz had told him, Ricochet didn’t spike whoever he wanted without their consent anymore, and generally asked for permission first. Still. The combination of Prowl’s own experiences and having felt the slight sense of danger in the older twin’s field… It didn’t exactly set off good vibes in the Praxian. 

Prowl vented deeply. It didn’t matter. With a firm nod, he took the plates and continued setting the table. He would treat Ricochet like any other Spec Ops agent, and he could do it. Prowl Second in Command merely because he was a by far better than average tactician and was very good with logistics and administration. No, Prowl was Commander of the Autobots because he was also well-versed in politics and knew how to handle bots he didn’t like or was unfamiliar with. Prowl _had_ been raised to become Praxus’ next High Lord after all. 

He finished the adding the last touches to the decoration when the door opened, and Prowl’s doorwings detected the familiar signature of Jazz’s spark. Sure enough, two arms wound themselves around Prowl’s waist, and the weight of the saboteur’s helm settled on Prowl’s shoulder. “Hello, Prowler.” The purr sent shivers down the Praxian’s spine. 

“Hello, Jazz.” He smiled and enjoyed the warm presence of his lover on his back before his manners kicked back in. “Can I offer you some Energon?” 

Jazz chuckled softly and pressed a kiss to a cable in the back of Prowl’s neck. “Nah, I’ll wait ‘till th’ others’re here. Bu’ ‘till then…” He stepped away and turned Prowl around, his visor glowing enticingly. “…’till then I’ll enjoy yer superb company.” 

Prowl’s optics widened at the tone, then his lips were being assaulted by a warm mouth. “Jazz.” He moaned and pressed himself closer, then he pushed the Polyhexian away, vents working furiously. “No. I will not be aroused when your brother and my creations come. It is not proper.” 

“Rico wouldn’t mind.” Jazz replied and pouted. 

“But I do, and I do not wish to scar Bluestreak with the image of his creators interfacing in front of him.” Prowl said, then placed a short, chaste kiss on Jazz’s still pouting lips. “Come and help me get the food.” Instead of an answer, there was a servo groping his left doorwing, and Prowl spun around. “Jazz, no.” 

The Polyhexian grinned. “Jazz, yes.” His engine revved, and Prowl backed away cautiously. Jazz followed him with a predatory gait. “Ya look delicious, has anyone e’er told ya tha’?” 

“Yes, they have.” Prowl said, and slowly walked into the kitchen (backwards). “Jazz, this isn’t going to happen.” 

“What, exactly?” 

“You know what I am talking about.” The Praxian replied, his doorwings trembling. Because of what, he didn’t know. Venting was getting harder and harder and Prowl honestly didn’t know what was about to happen. His tactical systems and battle simulator were formulating one possible outcome after another, but Prowl deleted them as quickly as they were being made. 

“Do I?” The small of Prowl’s back bumped into the kitchen table, and Jazz smiled. 

The tactician leaned backwards when Jazz still advanced, until there was nowhere to escape to, and the Polyhexian was right in his faceplate. “Jazz.” 

“Hmm?” Jazz asked and made some space for himself between the Praxian’s legs, helm tilted. Their vents were mingling, and Prowl was able to spot the outline of Jazz’s silver optics behind the visor. Jazz leaned closer and Prowl’s optics shuttered just as gentle lips claimed his own. His arms came up to circle the Polyhexian’s waist, holding him close. Jazz hummed happily and pressed closer, one of his servos cupping the back of Prowl’s helm, the other sneaking around his neck. 

Pure ecstasy filled Prowl and his spark spun wildly. He was truly, truly happy for the first time in vorns, here, in the arms of his lover. This feeling – the promise of this feeling – was the reason why Prowl had finally caved in and allowed the Polyhexian close to him, and right now he wondered why he hadn’t allowed it earlier. Their fields reached for one another and mingled, trading affectionate feelings. Prowl could have stayed forever in their little piece of paradise, only –

“I didn’ know this dinner came with a show.”

Prowl jerked away from Jazz and his wings collided painfully with the edge of the table. He hissed and pushed Jazz away, then turned to look at the mech who had so rudely intruded into his moment with his lover. Ricochet was grinning at them with crossed arms, amusement radiating off him. 

“Ya’ve got th’ worst timin’, bro.” Jazz complained. 

Prowl shot him a venomous look. “You two may take your places at the table. I will join you momentarily with some Energon.” 

“Sweetspark–” Jazz shut up at the glare he received and he dragged his twin to the table. 

Prowl exvented softly and shook his helm. It was good to know his glare hadn’t lost its touch. He took three cubes and filled them with engex, then put them on a tray. Time to face the music. Jazz and Ricochet were arguing quietly in Low Polyhex to each other. The Praxian’s lips twitched upwards at the adorable pout on his lover’s face. Jazz could behave so immature sometimes. 

“ _He’s really easy on th’ optics, bu’ ya sure he’s worth it?_ ” 

Only his long training in supressing any outward reactions had Prowl appear unaffected by the words Ricochet said to his twin, apparently thinking that he didn’t know Polyhex. 

“ _He’s more’n tha’_.” Jazz replied with a low growl. 

“ _Maybe._ ” Ricochet replied with a flick of his doorwings. “ _Ya could still do better._ ” 

“ _He could definitely find someone who is not as emotionally obtuse or has three creations._ ” Prowl agreed, before offering Ricochet his cube. “Energon?” He asked in Neocybex.

Both Polyhexians were gaping at him and there was the slightest guilty tilt to the winged twin’s sensory panels. Ricochet glyphlessly accepted the cube and looked away. Jazz on the other servo, stared at his lover with an appreciative glint to his visor, and his fingers brushed Prowl’s when he accepted his own cube. “Didn’ know ya spoke Polyhex.” 

“I am fluent in most major Cybertronian languages.” Prowl replied, one corner of his lips curving up. “My creators thought it important to give me a wide-ranging education.” 

“Ya’re gettin’ more’n’more alluring with every new thing I learn ‘bout ya.” Jazz said with a rev of his engine, making Prowl heat up and Ricochet raise an optic ridge. 

“That’s more than I ever wanted to hear about my Carrier.” A dry voice came from the door, and Prowl’s head whipped around. Smokescreen was standing in the doorway, arms crossed, while Bluestreak was standing awkwardly behind him. The youngling’s doorwings were held closely together with an embarrassed tilt to them. 

Prowl exvented softly. This evening was just getting better and better. “Smokescreen, Bluestreak, please come in. Meet Ricochet, Jazz’s twin.” 

Ricochet rose to his pedes and smiled charmingly. He took Smokescreen’s servo and raised it to his lips, kissing it gently. “Prowl failed to mention how handsome you are.” The orange accentuated mech said, visor dimming seductively.

Jazz introduced his faceplate to his servo, and Prowl growled his engine. Who did Ricochet think he was? He was about to bite out a comment when Smokescreen chuckled. “Charming, but not interested. Besides, it would be pretty weird if I dated my Carrier’s lover’s twin.” He winked at Prowl, and the Praxian sighed once again. 

A small form pushed itself forward, and Bluestreak stared at Ricochet. He scrutinised him, then turned to Jazz, then back to the orange twin, then again to Jazz. “You look like each other.” He stated. 

Ricochet stared at the youngling. “’Course we do. We’re twins.” 

“Sunny and Sides don’t look like each other.” Bluestreak replied. 

“Not all twins do, sweetspark.” Prowl explained with a soft smile. “What did we say about greeting new mechs?” 

Bluestreak flushed. “Hello, Ricochet. It’s nice to meet you.” 

Ricochet chuckled. “It’s nice t’ meet ya, too.” 

The small Praxian smiled tentatively at him, then turned to Jazz. “Sire, I didn’t know you had a twin?”

Ricochet coughed. “ _Sire?_ ” He was also looking at the saboteur. “Ya’ve got a sparklin’?”

“I do, t’ both o’ya.” Jazz replied with a grin, and booped Bluestreak’s nose. Ricochet’s doorwings twitched, and he straightened, a contemplative expression on his faceplate. There was another twitch, replaced by a shocked, jerky spreading of his doorwings, before they sagged a bit. 

Prowl couldn’t help the sigh escaping his vocaliser. Jazz was probably filling his twin in about how he had come to be the youngling’s sire. He glanced at Smokescreen, who had a small frown on his face while looking at his brother. Something about that expression bothered Prowl, but he couldn’t exactly pinpoint why. ::Smokescreen?:: 

His eldest creation startled, but he regained his composure quickly. ::Yeah?::

::What is bothering you?:: 

::Nothing.:: The colourful mech grinned. “Carrier, you promised dinner…?” 

“I did. If you would sit down, I will bring the food.” Prowl smoothly replied and swept his left doorwing. To Smokescreen, he added, ::We will talk later.::

Jazz joined Prowl in the kitchen and helped him carry the dishes, and they all sat down on the table. Prowl at the head, Jazz to his right and Smokescreen to his left. Bluestreak was sitting next to his brother and Ricochet at his twin’s right side. There was an empty seat opposite to Prowl where Side Burn would have sat if he had been able to join them. 

Unlike earlier the evening, there was light and enjoyable small talk while they were eating, the topics ranging from Smokescreen’s training to become a psychologist, Bluestreak’s latest achievements in school to the newest decisions of the Senate. While Megatron had killed the entire High Senate and Sentinel Prime on Kaon, an action that had inadvertently started the war, a new Senate had been elected which was now issuing orders to the Autobots. A stupid chain of command, if Prowl was asked, since the Senators more often than not hindered the war effort. 

“This was delicious.” Ricochet said at the end of the meal, patting his abdomen contently. “Who cooked?” 

Prowl raised an optic ridge. “I did.” 

“You?” Ricochet said incredulously. “I thought ya were Royalty?” 

“Yes?” It was hard not to smile at the expression on Ricochet’s face, but Prowl managed nonetheless. 

“Didncha have servants t’ do tha’?” 

“We did, but whenever I was allowed to, I cooked myself. It is quite… relaxing.” Prowl rose and started to gather the plates, when Jazz took hold of his servo.

“Sit down, Prowler. I’ll take care o’this.” 

Prowl shook his helm. “Jazz–” 

“I’ve got this.” The saboteur grinned. “Take it as a ‘thank you’ fer makin’ dinner.” 

The tactician’s optics softened. “Anytime.” Jazz smirked and stole a kiss, then sauntered to the kitchen, hips swaying. Prowl’s doorwings fanned as he stared after his lover until Smokescreen reset his vocaliser. Prowl shook his wings and locked them at their usual position, then smiled at Ricochet. “I hope you enjoyed tonight as much as we did?” 

A grin spread on orange lips, but for once Prowl had a feeling that he truly meant it. “I did. Ya surprised me, Prowl, t’ b’ honest. An’ yer creations’re adorable.” 

“I’m not!” Smokescreen and Bluestreak cried out unison, and Ricochet chuckled.

“Rest m’case.” 

Prowl smiled fondly at his sparklings, before focusing on Ricochet once more. “I am glad.” He rose to his pedes. “If you would excuse me, it’s time for Bluestreak to get to berth.” 

“Carrier!” Bluestreak whined, but Prowl shook his helm.

“No buts. Say goodnight, then off you go.” 

Bluestreak pouted, then hugged his brother, shyly approached Ricochet and got hugged, before dashing to the kitchen to say goodnight to his sire. Finally, he returned, and Prowl took his servo to lead him to his berthroom. 

“Is Ricochet coming more often now?” He asked after Prowl had tucked him in and was about to kiss his chevron. 

The older Praxian halted, then tilted his helm. “Probably, when he is in Iacon. Do you mind?” 

Bluestreak hesitated, then shook his helm with determination. “No.” 

Prowl gave him a soft smile. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to hear that.” He nuzzled Bluestreak’s chevron with his own, then stood up. “Recharge well, sweetspark.” 

“Goodnight, Carrier.” Bluestreak chirped tiredly, and Prowl smiled fondly. He gave the command for the lights to turn off, then joined the others at the table. Jazz had already returned and the twins and Smokescreen were joking amiably about Optimus’ confusion whenever mechs froze at his sight. 

Happiness spread through Prowl, and he savoured the feeling. He was about to sit down, when he received a comm from Optimus, a priority marker tagged to the message. Next to him, Jazz stiffened as well, and they exchanged gazes. “I’m sorry, bu’ we gotta go.” Jazz said and jumped to his pedes. “There’s an emergency in Nyon.” 

“Wha’ happened?” Ricochet asked. 

“We do not know yet.” Prowl replied with a frown. “Smokescreen, if I have not returned by tomorrow morning–”

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of Blue.” Prowl smiled at him and brushed his chevron, then hurried out of his quarters, Jazz at his heels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Their ten vorns anniversary was super fun to write, I have to admit. 
> 
> And next time: Nyon. Or, you'll see. Wonder who we'll meet there;)


	15. Chapter 14: Hot Rod

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Wait, he’s _right_?” Ratchet stared at his friend. “How come I never knew? Forget that I’m actually your Amica Endura, I’m your fraggin’ medic!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, but I had an exam last week and one today. I'm also going to have exams starting with the first week of January until midst of February, so no promises on when the next chapter will be up. 
> 
> Now on a happier note, thank you all for the comments and kudos, they never fail to cheer me up <3
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter, it's one of my favourites;)
> 
> Chapter specific warnings: Bluestreak cursing and sticky interfacing (Crtl+F from after "bunch of immature younglings" the next *** if that's not your jam)

Hot Rod stood on a small elevation near the burning ruins that used to be Nyon, not bothering to hide the tears running down his cheeks. _This was all on him_. After having wired the whole city to blow up, he had used his outlier ability and flamed out to set the bombs off. A servo came to rest on his shoulder and the young mech flinched.

“You did what you had to do.” Hot Rod turned to look at Kup, his mentor, disbelieve shining in his optics.

“I destroyed our home.” He whispered between static. He felt like slag if he was honest. 

“The Decepticons would have destroyed it sooner or later.” The old silver mech replied. “And this version of Nyon was nothing compared to its former glory, before Zeta Prime drained Energon from its citizens.” He squeezed Hot Rod’s shoulder. “Come, the Autobots are here. Thanks to you, there are thousands of mechs who were saved. You did the right thing.”

“Then why does it feel so wrong?” Hot Rod whispered. He wound his arms around himself. He was eight hundred and forty-three vorns old, barely an adult. Three hundred vorns ago, he had received his final upgrades and he had thought that he would feel… well, wiser, more matured. But, if he was being honest, there was barely a difference to how he felt prior to his upgrade. Except for having more systems to use.

Kup pulled the young mech in for a one-armed hug. “Sometimes the right things don’t feel right, and the wrong things do. And it’s the task of the commanding officers to call for the _right_ decisions. But don’t belief for a second that they knew from the beginning what is right or wrong. They gained their knowledge through experience.” Kup gestured at the burning city. “Good and bad experience. Mechs learn, never stop learning, and get better. And with time, they are able to make the right calls with less and less undesired side effects.” The silver mech smiled gently at his protégé. “One orn, _Rodimus_ , one orn you will know as well, and you will be a great leader. But until then, you must learn, and learn you did today.”

“Learn?” Hot Rod scoffed. “What the slagging pits did I learn?”

Kup disapprovingly raised an optic ridge. “Language, young one.” He pulled away and squeezed the orange and golden mech’s shoulder one last time. “You learned that some decisions are hard and have a great cost. That you, as the one making the decision, also bear the responsibility for your actions. That sometimes, no matter how wrong it feels, things need to get done.” Silver optics swept a last time over the remnants of what used to be Nyon. “Come, Optimus is waiting.”

Hot Rod wiped his optics and vented his systems, then followed his mentor without looking back. He would have lost his composure otherwise. Five giant shuttles were standing at the foot of the hill, and bots were already streaming into the transporters, eager to get some Energon and berths to lie on for some well-deserved recharge.

The two mechs made their way over to the middle shuttle, where a familiar figure was standing, discussing something with a black and white Praxian and a white and red medic. Hot Rod nibbled at his lower lip, mixed feelings rising in him as they always did when he saw the impressive figure of Optimus Prime. Broad shoulders, slim waist, long slender legs and a beautiful face hidden by a facemask.

Oh yes, Hot Rod knew the face behind the mask, knew that Optimus Prime was older than most Cybertronians – and mechs all across the Commonwealth – thought he was. The Nyonite knew a lot about the Prime, more than probably even the Prime’s closest friends. The reason for that was also the reason for Hot Rod’s mixed feelings: Rodimus, the designation he had actually been given, was no one else but Optimus Prime’s creation. 

Well, Optimus’ and _Megatron’s_ creation. The fragging slagmaker himself. The monster that younglings feared. The Commonwealth’s Most Wanted Criminal. 

_What a fragging honour_.

Hot Rod didn’t want it. He wanted to be a normal mech, just another Cybertronian caught in the war between Autobots and Decepticons. But no, he had to be the sparkling caught in the war his _creators_ had caused. Well, maybe Megatron was more at fault than Optimus, but still. His carrier and sire were the slagging leaders of the two opposing forces in this war. And guess how that made Hot Rod feel. Exactly. _Like slag_. And to make matters worse, Megatron didn’t even _know_ he had a creation. Wasn’t it great? Hot Rod sometimes really worried about Optimus’ mental health. What had possessed the Prime to carry Megatron’s sparkling and then _not_ use it to negotiate peace?

They came onto hearing range, and Hot Rod listened in to what the Praxian, medic and his carrier were talking about.

“…better than expected. I have to admit that those results exceeded my prognosis.” The Praxian said.

“Prowl’s right.” The medic said. “The injuries could’ve been far worse given how Nyon’s looking like, but the worst I had to treat were a missing leg and a few burns.”

“Thank you.” Optimus vented softly. “Prowl, what is the probability of a Decepticon attack on our transporters?”

“Depending on the route we take, ranging between two-point-eight percent and thirty-one-point-two percent. And it would be safer to travel together, since only three of our shuttles have weapons, sir.” The Praxian, Prowl apparently, replied in an offish tone. His doorwings never moved even the tiniest bit, which really surprised Hot Rod. All the Praxians he had met before had been quite expressive with their sensor panels. 

“Alright, give the order for our route, Commander.”

Prowl nodded, then suddenly his right doorwing, the one directed at Kup and Hot Rod, twitched slightly. The Praxian looked into their direction, and a shudder ran down the orange and golden mech’s spinal struts. Those azure optics were _icy_.

The medic and Optimus turned their heads to look at what had caught Prowl’s attention, and the Prime’s optics lit up. Hot Rod felt happiness and warmth pulsating through his bond with his carrier, and he sent his own happiness back. He _was_ happy to see Optimus, but he also felt… well, Hot Rod couldn’t really explain how he felt, just that there was also another feeling that kept him from being _completely_ happy. Hm. Maybe he should get his processor examined.

“Kup, Hot Rod. It is good to see you again.” Optimus greeted them, his frame basically vibrating.

Kup inclined his helm. “You, too, Prime. We’re the last two; everyone else is already aboard a shuttle.”

“Very well. Commander?”

Prowl nodded and inclined his doorwings. “Lieutenant-Generals Inferno, Skids, Low Wave and Chromia are preparing their ships. The moment we give the order, they will be ready.”

Optimus nodded at the Praxian, then motioned for the four mechs to enter the transporter. “Shall we?”

***

Thanks to Nyon lying on the border between Autobot and Decepticon controlled land and actually closer to Kaon, Tarn and Polyhex than Iacon, plus considering that Commander Prowl – the _fragging Autobot Second in Command, how insane was that_ – had chosen the safest route that was very wounded and with the transporters were very, very slow, it would take an orn to arrive in Iacon. And that’s why, after being relieved by the following shift, Hot Rod, Kup, Optimus, Prowl and the medic, who had introduced himself as Ratchet, were sitting in the small lounge in Optimus’ quarters.

The Prime had retracted his face mask, obviously comfortable with the present company. It still didn’t change Hot Rod’s attitude towards Prowl. That mech was _scary_ without even trying. But easy on the optics as well, as he had to admit begrudgingly. Especially with those magnificent doorwings. But the way the Praxian held himself and how the others treated him, the probability that Hot Rod would have any success with him lay around zero. He wiggled his spoilers. Maybe another Praxian. 

“Now the only question that remains is: what are we to do with so many Nyonites?” Ratchet grumbled into his slightly acidic mid-grade.

Hot Rod leaned forward, quite interested in which fate the surviving citizens of Nyon would receive.

“Whatever they wish to do.” Optimus said decisively. “The right to choose is something we fight for, and they should have the right to choose what they want to do.”

Prowl’s wings didn’t even twitch as he spoke up, and his voice was as aloof as ever. “In an ideal world I would agree with you. But we are at war.” His optics gentled, and Hot Rod stared at the Praxian. He looked even prettier when he wasn’t wearing the blank mask of a drone. “We should try and recruit as many Nyonites as possible. It would give them a purpose to focus on and leave only a small number to become Neutrals – and thus easy targets and further casualties.”

Hot Rod frowned. “You can’t just force mechs to do something they don’t want to.”

“I am not forcing anyone to do anything.” Prowl replied calmly, cold optics appraising the orange and golden mech, who felt a bit uncomfortable under that scrutinizing gaze. “However, with the right arguments, about seventy-eight-point-nine percent might join the Autobots. And even more would follow if we are able to get some Praxians and mechs of the Crystal City to talk to them.” There was barely any pause as the monochrome tactician pondered over the problem. “Yes, it would raise the number to ninety-two-point-four percent.” 

“They are civilians, Prowl.” Optimus said with a frown. “And most of them are either old or too young.”

A strange expression flitted over the Praxian’s faceplates, but it was too fast gone for Hot Rod to be able to identify it. “Most Autobots were civilians and the same can be said about many Decepticons. No one has the luxury of being neutral anymore, not with the Decepticons using them for so-called ‘target-practice’. You are either a Decepticon or not, there is no difference for them.” His doorwings lifted an inch. “I know you wish to protect civilians and neutrals, but sooner or later, they _will_ be Autobots, whether you want it or not.”

Optimus sighed. “Then do what you think is best. It is true we could use more soldiers.”

Prowl flickered his doorwings. “I will. If they are even the slightest bit like Praxians, most of them will want to join anyway.”

“Only that the Decepticons didn’t destroy Nyon.” Hot Rod snarked. “ _I_ did.”

Once again, Hot Rod wished he hadn’t spoken up, as he found himself at the receiving end of those icy blue optics. Prowl scrutinized him for a few kliks, and the young mech had to force himself to not look away or seek help from his carrier. Finally, those optics softened and the Praxian’s sensor panels twitched.

“Did you wish to destroy Nyon?” Prowl asked.

“What?” Hot Rod exclaimed indignantly. “No, of course not!”

“Did you destroy Nyon on a whim or because you had already wired the entire city?”

“No, what–” Hot Rod’s engine growled. “Why would I want to destroy my home? I did it because those fraggin’ ‘Cons would have attacked us and used Nyon for–” He broke off, optics flitting to Optimus. “Well, that’s classified, but you get the gist!”

“Language.” Prowl scolded, but his features had softened even more. “And everyone present knows about Megatron’s plan to transform Nyon into an Omega Destructor, using the technology already provided by Nova Prime.” He inclined his helm elegantly, and Hot Rod suddenly felt as if he should bow before him. “All those answers you gave me, paint the picture of a mech trying to safe his city from the Decepticons. So yes, in my optics the Decepticons ultimately destroyed Nyon, not you. There is no doubt in my mind that your fellow citizens will see that as well.”

Hot Rod stared at the Praxian, completely at loss. He seemed nearly _nice_ , though he had yet to smile. He glanced at his carrier, who smiled softly.

“I agree with Prowl.” The Prime said, his field brushing affectionately against Hot Rod’s.

Prowl’s optics darted from his leader to the young Nyonite. “Hot Rod, I find myself curious as to how you ended up as Kup’s ward.”

Hot Rod froze. Looked at his Carrier. Looked back to Prowl. “I, uhm, I…” He broke off, helplessly.

“I made Hot Rod Kup’s ward.” Optimus said lightly.

“A difficult decision, I take?” The Praxian replied. “It is never easy to part from one’s creation.”

“The frag?” Ratchet gaped at Prowl, but the monochrome mech simply continued to calmly look at the Prime.

Optimus frowned slightly. “Why do you think that I have a creation?” He asked.

Prowl flickered his doorwings and flared them slightly. “There is a program Carriers have, but it only comes online after a sparkling has been carried. You used it when holding Bluestreak.” The Praxian jerked a doorwing at Hot Rod. “He has the age for being your sparkling, which I assume you carried at the beginning of the war, when you disappeared for a while. You interact with a familiarity that I have only observed between family members, and since we have not heard about Hot Rod before, I assume you had last seen him before or even during the early vorns of the war. Besides, you have a picture of him in your office.”

The Prime stared at his Second in Command, then chuckled merrily. “Let this be a lesson for everyone to never keep a secret from Prowl. He will make you regret it. Though we have kept in touch and I visited Rodimus whenever possible.”

“Wait, he’s _right_?” Ratchet stared at his friend. “How come I never knew? Forget that I’m actually your Amica Endura, I’m your fraggin’ medic!” 

“Alpha Trion and I deemed it safer that only he, I, Ironhide and Kup knew who Rodimus, Hot Rod’s actual name, really was.” Optimus answered. Prowl’s doorwings jerked backwards.

“So that’s where you disappeared for. ‘Special Prime Training’, my aft. Also, _Ironhide_ knew? But Elita and I didn’t?” The medic cursed lying patients in a very creative way in Old Kaon, then pointed a wrench at the Prime. “Med bay, the moment we arrive. And don’t you dare not come.”

The Prime raised his servos. “I will be there, I swear.” His optics sparkled with playfulness, and he looked more relaxed and happier than Hot Rod had ever seen him around other mechs. His spark clenched painfully. His carrier deserved better than having had his spark broken by Megatron.

“A wise decision.” Prowl murmured, his lips twitching upwards ever so slightly. He turned to Hot Rod and dipped his sensor panels in a familiar formal way of greeting. “It is an honour to meet you, Rodimus. I am Prowl of Praxus.”

“Uh, likewise?” Hot Rod replied uncomfortably. He somehow had the feeling as if he’d heard that designation before, especially in that combination. Suddenly, his optics widened as he remembered. “Aren’t you the High Lord of Praxus? The one who got kidnapped?”

Prowl grimaced and his doorwings twitched downwards, the first uncontrolled reaction Hot Rod had seen from the steady Praxian. “Yes, that one.” He said tightly.

“Sorry.” Hot Rod cringed. He could imagine how that wasn’t exactly a pleasant memory.

Prowl nodded stiffly, then turned to Optimus. “If you would excuse me, I still have work to do.”

The Prime frowned. “Your shift is over, Prowl.”

“There are still datapads that need to be worked through.” The Praxian replied.

“One joor, but after that you will retire for the night.” Optimus crossed his arms, staring down his Head Tactician.

Prowl huffed, but his doorwings dipped in acceptance. “One joor, sir. Gentlemechs.” He flickered his doorwings, then left. 

Hot Rod watched him go before turning to his carrier. “Is he always like this?”

“Worse.” It was Ratchet who answered. “This was really tame.” He shook the wrench he still held at the Prime. “The moment we arrive, no buts.” Then he left as well.

“Well,” Kup groaned as he stood up, joints creaking. “Those young bots have the right idea. Only, _I’m_ goin’ to get some well-deserved recharge unlike those workaholics. Good dark-cycle, Prime, Roddy.”

“Good dark-cycle, Kup.”

“G’night, Kup!”

Silence spread, and Hot Rod shifted uncomfortably as he realized that he was alone with his carrier. He glanced at the Prime, briefly meeting blue optics, before looking away. _Well, awkward_. “So, uh, why’d you tell your Commander and your CMO about who I am? You never told anyone before.” He finally broke the silence.

“To quote Prowl: It was only logical.” Hot Rod looked up to meet Optimus’ warm gaze. A smile tugged at the corners of light blue lips. “I want someone else to know about you, and who better than my doctor and Second in Command? Should something happen, the two of them will take care of you.” His optics sparkled. “No matter how cold or gruff they appear.”

***

“Carrier!” A young voice squealed the moment Optimus, Prowl, Ratchet, Skids, Inferno, Low Wave, Chromia, Kup and Hot Rod entered the Prime Palace. A blur of grey and red threw itself at Prowl, and the tactician whirled his charge around. It was a Praxian youngling, Hot Rod noticed. He stared with wide optics as the tactician nuzzled their chevrons together. This really did _not_ conciliate with the picture Hot Rod had from the icy mech. “I missed you.”

Prowl shifted his grip, supporting the youngling on his hip. “I missed you, too, sweetspark. Did you have a good time while I was gone?”

“I did! Uncle Burn visited, but he could only stay for one orn. He said he had to go on a mission.” The youngling wrinkled his nose. “Rage and ‘Spark said the same. Everybody’s always on those fragging missions.” 

Several mechs’ vents stuttered. Ratchet and Hot Rod chocked on their chuckles, while Chromia had no shame at all and outright laughed.

Prowl’s doorwings jerked upward, murderous optics turning to two mechs, one red and one golden and quite handsome. They were Kaonites, about a helm taller than the Praxian, but they both shrank down at the look the tactician gave them. “Bluestreak, do not use that word again, it’s not a very nice one. Now, take Skids with you and go, your sire should be in his office.”

“’Kay. Sorry, ‘Ri.” Bluestreak mumbled.

Prowl kissed the tip of his nose. “It’s alright. Now go.” He placed the youngling down on the ground. Bluestreak waved at the officers, then sprinted off to wherever his sire was, tagging Skids along. The Kaonites tried to follow, but the Praxian’s icy bark stopped them. “Sideswipe. Sunstreaker. My office. _Now_.”

The red mech whimpered, while the golden one scowled and crossed his arms, but both followed the black and white tactician.

“Ohh, someone’s going to get smelted alive.” Low Wave sing-songed.

“Well, nothing less than they deserve.” Ratchet huffed. “Fraggin’ cursin’ in front of Prowl’s bitlet.”

“Language, Ratch.” Inferno scolded playfully.

“There’s no youngling around now.” The doctor replied sniffily. “Prime, med bay, now.”

Optimus smiled. “Coming, no worries.” He looked at the tall red Security Officer. “Inferno, will you show Hot Rod and Kup around?”

“Yes, sir!” Inferno saluted and smiled at Hot Rod and his mentor. “Follow me.”

***

Prowl stalked into his office and sat down on his chair. He had hoped to enjoy a quiet evening with Jazz and his creation(s), but the Pit-spawns had to ruin it. Sideswipe was shuffling on his pedes, while Sunstreaker glowered at the guest chairs, arms behind his back.

“I allowed you to be near Bluestreak, because until now I thought you were a good influence for each other.” Prowl didn’t raise his voice, instead he used a low, disappointed tone. Both Kaonites flinched. “But cursing in front of my creation will not be tolerated.” At least they had the decency to look chagrined. “I will give you another chance, but if I ever catch you cursing in front of Bluestreak, that’s it. Am I understood?”

“Yes, sir!” Both said.

Prowl nodded. “Now, Sideswipe, I am sure Ratchet needs another pair of helping servos. The same goes for Red Alert, Sunstreaker. I do not want any complaints from them for the next three quartex, which will be the time you are helping them. It is also the time you will refrain from seeing Bluestreak.”

“But–”

One icy look levelled at Sunstreaker shut the golden twin up. “Now go, I do not want to see your faces in my office for at least one quartex.” The Twins saluted, unwillingness clear in their expressions. Prowl vented his systems after they were gone and rubbed his helm. A processor ache was already building up, which was _exactly_ what he needed.

Also, there was the problem that was ‘Hot Rod’ to think about. It was bad enough that Prowl, Second in Command of the Autobots, had a weak point through his creations. He was lucky that neither of them were going off-base, with Bluestreak being still a youngling and Smokescreen needed in whatever base he was stationed at due to his tactical training and being a psychology student. They were safe. 

Hot Rod, however, would not stay here, Prowl was sure of that. That mech buzzed with the same nervous energy as Jazz, Mirage, Hound and most other Spec Ops agents or scouts did. Yes, Hot Rod would soon go out on missions, and if something happened to him, Prowl was sure Optimus would be compromised. And that was not a comforting thought. 

The Praxian narrowed his optics. Who could be the Nyonite’s sire? Who was so trusted by the Prime that they had created together? Who had been deemed _worthy_ by the Prime? On the other servo, not even two of Optimus’ three Amicae had known that he had carried, so Prowl could only conclude that whoever was responsible for kindling the Prime must be someone that Optimus didn’t want anyone to know about. So, who exactly was the sire? Prowl absolutely needed to know. 

“I don’ know if this was terrifyin’ or jus’ plain sexy.”

Prowl jerked up, optic widening in surprise. His gaze found Jazz, who was leaning in his doorway, arms crossed and a smirk under his bright blue visor. “Jazz, I didn’t hear you.” How long the saboteur been standing there? 

The saboteur pushed himself off the wall, and the door slid shut. He walked over to where Prowl was sitting, his gait predatory. “Ya were quite distracted, it seemed.” With a quick motion he tugged the tactician up, snaking an arm around the Praxian’s waist and pulled him flush against him. Prowl gasped, but the sound was swallowed by eager lips. Moaning softly, Prowl offlined his optics and wound his arms around the Polyhexian’s waist. “Missed ya.” Jazz murmured between kisses.

“I missed you, too.” Prowl gasped again as clever lips found a way to his neck, and dentae nibbled gently at his main left main Energon line. “You and Bluestreak and – oh, yes, right there! – and Smokescreen and Road Rage. Jazz!” His doorwings fluttered excitedly as Jazz’s agile tongue dipped between seams, licking at his sensitive protoform before travelling further down, lips pressing kisses right above the spot where Prowl’s spark was.

Jazz hummed and Prowl keened, throwing back his helm. He hadn’t seen Jazz for nearly a solar-cycle. The Head of Spec Ops had been on a mission, and when he had come back, Prowl had just been on his way to leave for Nyon after the dinner. 

“Jazz,” Prowl murmured between kisses, “this is my office.”

The saboteur sighed and pulled back, visor sliding away to reveal his dazzling silver optics. “Righ’, no inappropriate behaviour here.” He hesitated. “I – Prowler, would ya wanna… share sparks ?” 

Prowl stilled. They had yet to share sparks. It was a line the Praxian had drawn without saying anything about it, but the saboteur had understood nonetheless. They had never talked about it, never even brushed the topic. That Jazz would ask this of him now…

“Ya don’ have ta.” Jazz pressed his lips against Prowl’s and when he pulled back, there was a tender expression in his optics. “Won’ e’er ask fer somethin’ ya don’ wanna give. Wouldn’ want it if ya don’ wanna give it willingly.” One of his servos reached up and gently caressed Prowl’s cheek. Then his optics turned mischievous and his visor slid down again. He lifted the Praxian onto his desk, pressed himself between white thighs, and pulled Prowl’s helm down for a heated kiss. 

The Praxian, completely forgetting the look on Jazz’s faceplate and where he was, returned the kiss enthusiastically. His servos framed Jazz’s helm, gently holding him in place for a thorough claiming. It was probably due to his distraction that he didn’t hear the door slide, but his sensor panels picked up the spark signatures of the mechs entering his office. He yelped and slid off his desk – only to fall on top of Jazz, tumbling both of them to the ground.

“Smooth, Prowl, very smooth.” Came the dry voice of Mirage. Prowl quickly rose to his pedes and turned around, mortification heating his faceplates as he met the optics of the Towers mech and Hound.

Jazz giggled as he jumped onto his own pedes in an elegant movement with so many twists and turns that no other mech would have been able to pull off without tripping all over themselves. “’Raj, Hound, good t’ see ya. Anyways, I left Blue with Skids, gotta return t’ see if they’re a’ight.” He pressed a quickly pecked Prowl’s cheek, then sauntered out of the Second’s office, hips swaying more than they usually did.

Mirage smirked as he sat down in front of Prowl’s desk, and the tactician sighed. The blue and white noble would throw subtle remarks at him for however long this meeting would take, wouldn’t he? Hound snickered softly, his field nudging Prowl’s playfully. Sometimes Prowl wondered if he was truly leading an army and not a bunch of immature younglings.

***

Prowl felt nervous. Legitimately, fidgety, doorwings-trembling kind of nervous. He hadn’t felt this nervous since… well, probably since he was a youngling. Jazz’s question had prompted him to think about what he wanted, and he decided he wanted Jazz. All of him. His processor, his frame, his spark. The door swished open, pulling Prowl out of his thoughts.

Jazz sauntered in, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “Prowler.” He greeted the Praxian seductively, pulling him in to kiss him hungrily. After a klik he pulled back, a frown appearing on whatever was visible of his faceplate at the lack of respond. “Somethin’ wrong?”

Shaking his helm, Prowl shifted on his pedes, his field betraying the nervousness he didn’t want Jazz to know about.

“Prowl?” Jazz asked softly, concern lacing his voice.

“I want to share sparks.” Prowl replied, not meeting the Polyhexian’s visor.

Jazz froze. Then he lifted a servo, tilting up Prowl’s head. “Ya sure? ‘Cause I don’ want ya t’ do this only ‘cause I want it.”

Prowl raised his servos to take off Jazz’s visor, a small smile gracing his lips. The nervousness disappeared from his field, replaced by certainty and love. “I know. But I want to, and exactly because I know you would not demand this.” He pressed a gentle kiss to Jazz’s lips. “I want you, Jazz, all of you.”

Silver optics flashed with desire, and the next moment Prowl found himself in deep liplock, startling a breathless laugh out of the tactician. But this was something Prowl wanted to be in control of, this was something he _needed_ to be in charge of. Because the last few times he shared his spark… Well, he didn’t want to think about it right now.

So he pushed Jazz backwards into his berthroom and onto the berth, making space for himself between the Polyhexian’s legs. Jazz chuckled and moved his servos to Prowl’s hips, deft fingers slipping into transformation seams and stroking the sensitive protoform beneath the armour. Prowl moaned softly, grinding his hips down, causing delicious friction to spark between their interface panels.

“Gonna frag me first?” Jazz asked, optics shining with amusement as he spread his legs even more in invitation. “Or wanna merge right ‘way?” His field betrayed the joy, affection and tenderness he lacked in his voice.

Prowl smiled at him, pressing soft kisses to the saboteur’s jaw. “You wouldn’t mind if I take control?” 

Jazz stilled, then sagged into the berth. “I don’ usually submit,” He replied quietly. “Bu’ I trust ya. Go ‘head, Prowler.”

Love and happiness flushed Prowl’s systems at Jazz’s words, and he leaned up to steal a deep kiss from him. “Love you.” He murmured between kisses and tapped at the cover above Jazz’s spike. “Want you. Need you. Trust you.”

“Ah, Prowler.” Jazz sighed, hooking one leg over the Praxian’s hip. “Need ya, too. Ya’re my other half, an’ I’m not complete without ya.” He stretched his head up to capture Prowl’s in chaste kisses. His spike cover retracted with a soft _klick_ , and he smirked. “Do yer worst, lover.”

Prowl chuckled breathlessly, then reached down with a servo, teasing the edge of Jazz’s spike housing with a finger. The Polyhexian whined and shifted his hips, trying to get the finger onto his half-pressurised spike. But Prowl stilled instead, waiting until Jazz stopped moving.

“No fair, Prowler.” The saboteur breathed.

Prowl grinned down at him and caught his lips in a kiss, hoping to distract his lover. Another idea came, and he expanded his EM field, engulfing the Third in Command with it, emitting his pleasure and love and happiness. Jazz gasped, a soundless cry falling from his lips at the onslaught of emotions. Adding to that, Prowl leaned down, whispering sweet nothing in the Towers’ beautiful and musical language right into Jazz’s audial horn. He knew exactly what his voice did to the saboteur, similar to how Jazz’s voice resonated with his doorwings. The Polyhexian _sang_ his designation as he overloaded, and Prowl purred at the sight. Jazz was so beautiful like this, putting his trust into Prowl.

Looking back, the Praxian couldn’t understand how he hadn’t seen Jazz in this light earlier, despite him being so loud. Or maybe it was because of that that he had closed his optics. It didn’t matter, though, they were here now, together. Prowl touched his finger to the mess on Jazz’s abdomen, drawing meaningless glyphs. Jazz hummed softly, lazily blinking up at his lover with a languorous smile on his lips.

“Tha’ wasn’ fraggin’ me.” Jazz mock-complained.

“No,” Prowl agreed, then gathered some transfluids and started to leisurely pump the enticing silver and black spike. He could feel his own valve clench down on nothing, jealous of his servo and aching to be filled. Jazz hummed again, a content sigh escaping his lips. Gently twisting his servo, he smirked as this earned him a startled cheep, and moved his fingers upwards too tease the transfluid-dripping slit. Jazz moaned softly and smiled at Prowl, his field radiating love and deep trust, and Prowl treasured the latter nearly more than the former.

Jazz buckled his hips. “C’mon, I won’ break. ‘M no delicate femme.”

Prowl chuckled. “Delicate femme? I am afraid I do not know that term.” He removed his servo from Jazz’s spike, ignored the protesting splutter Jazz made, and slithered down until he was face to face with the spike. 

“Hmm, guess not. All yer lovers were mechs.” Jazz replied, then gasped as Prowl took him into his mouth, humming lowly. “Prowl!” Jazz exclaimed and offlined his optics, pleasure filling his field.

Prowl let the spike slip from his mouth. “I had one femme who was my lover.” Prowl replied. “It did not go beyond a night, but still. And do not look away.”

“One-night stands don’ count.” Jazz huffed and glared at the Praxian. “C’mon, Pro – _oh!_ ” 

Prowl grinned around the spike he had just took in its entirety into his mouth. He pinged Jazz while his constricted his throat around the head of the spike, glossa laving at the small ridges on the underside of the shaft. ::My pace, love.:: Jazz groaned and bucked his hips upwards, but Prowl pulled off and _tsksed_. “It really is an effort for you to just lie back and enjoy, hm?” He asked over Jazz’s whine before leaning back down and giving the dripping spike little licks. 

“Prowl, please, stop teasin’!” Jazz gasped, his servos clenching at the soft mesh of his blanket. Prowl hid a smirk and took the head into his mouth again, teasing the slit with the tip of his glossa. The Polyhexian bucked his hips up, but Prowl was already gone. 

He opened his valve cover and slid up the Polyhexian’s frame, wings spread on display for the mech beneath him. “You are so very impatient sometimes.” He pressed a deep kiss to Jazz’s lips and the saboteur groaned as he tasted himself, thoroughly distracted as Prowl quickly prepped himself. When he deemed himself ready, he pulled away from the kiss and took Jazz’s spike into his servo, guiding it into the wet heat of his eager valve. The saboteur raised his hips and Prowl stilled. “My pace.” He repeated.

“Fraggin’ Maximo, ya’re horrible.” Jazz slumped back onto the berth. Prowl collapsed onto the spike and buried his face in the Polyhexian’s neck, but his body did nothing to hide the tremors shaking his frame. “Are – Are ya _laughin’_ at me?!” Jazz asked incredulously. Prowl pushed himself up and smiled lovingly at him, capturing his pouting lips for a sweet kiss.

“You are extraordinary, love.” Prowl murmured, caressing Jazz’s cheek with his thumb. He raised himself until only the head of Jazz’s spike remained in his valve, then, slowly, began sinking down until he bottomed out, building up their pleasure. Jazz stared at Prowl, limply lying there for a while as the monochrome mech rode him, before keening and moving with the Praxian, chasing their pleasure. “Jazz…” Prowl moaned as his callipers clenched teasingly around the Polyhexian’s spike. 

Without stopping what he was doing, Prowl lifted a servo and ran it down the seam between Jazz’s chestplates, fingers scraping ever so slightly. The saboteur sighed happily and he placed a servo over Prowl’s, lacing their fingers together.

“Ya sure, sweetspark?” He asked softly.

“Yes,” Prowl breathed.

Jazz nodded, then gave the command for his chestplates to part. Golden light engulfed them, and Prowl stared at the spark dancing happily inside the crystal casing like sunlight. It was a gorgeous gold and orange, specks of white here and there. He couldn’t wait to feel it with his lips, his spark; to be one with the mech it belonged to. Not consciously thinking about it, Prowl bent down and mouthed at the crystal, gently nibbling at the casing keeping him from touching the spark. Jazz threw his head back, mouth falling open as he sang sweet, sweet tunes that resonated with Prowl’s wings.

Prowl gave soft gasps, unable to stop his doorwings from swaying with the sound his lover made, and he had to stop unless he wanted to overload before he got to the best part. Not that Jazz would have minded, but still. He looked up and met the Polyhexian’s heated gaze, the demand in them obvious. Prowl smiled gently and pushed himself up, triggering his chestplates open and displaying his own spark for his lover.

The nervousness from earlier came back. Not because he was unsure of how to please Jazz, or fear of Jazz backing out, or fear of being rejected, but fear of being judged and found _okay_ instead of exceptional. He wanted Jazz to never have had someone like him, he wanted to be the last one for Jazz to ever be with. But how could he even dare to claim the Polyhexian for himself if he found his spark lacking?

“Prowler…” Jazz whispered and the Praxian moaned at how the voice affected his spark. “Ya’re _beautiful_.” His face, cast in icy blue light, was full of adoration and awe, an echo of his pulsing field. Jazz lifted his servos, one coming up to cup Prowl’s face, the other one trailing over the crystal of the casing. Prowl leaned into the touches, and then they opened their sparkcasings at the same time without having had to communicate. Both of them gasped and stared with wide optics at each other.

Their sparks were _resonating_ with one another. They were – 

Prowl keened and lowered his chest, icy blue tendrils already entangled with golden and orange ones as their sparks reached for their other half. Just like the mechs themselves, their sparks, their _essential beings_ were the complete opposite, and combined they completed each other, and only then were they whole. 

Any doubt about their relationship was gone from their minds, chased away from the knowledge that they were meant to be together. 

~ _Mine. Yours. Love. Safety._ ~

~ _Yours. Mine. Balance. Haven._ ~

Their overload was nothing like they had ever experienced before, pure ecstasy that could not have been reached without the other. Jazz’s whole being cradling Prowl in a save embrace as they laid side by side was the last thing Prowl remembered before falling into deep, deep recharge.

***

“Prowl, you can’t use your rank to punish the twins for swearing in front of Bluestreak.”

“I can and I did.” Prowl replied, arms crossed and a scowl on his faceplates. “Their punishment is over in a quartex, anyways.”

Optimus did not sigh, and he did not pinch the bridge of his nose. “You cannot use your rank to punish _any_ mech for private disagreements. Don’t make me make it a regulation.”

The Praxian’s engine growled, but his doorwings dropped in submission. “Fine. It will not occur again.”

Optimus smiled with relieve. “Thank you. Now, I want you to inspect our base in Tetrahex and its outpost. It should take you about a quartex to complete your assignment.” 

Prowl frowned. “A quartex? Bluestreak–”

“You may take him with you.” Optimus interrupted his Second. “I have already made arrangements.” He pulled out a datapad. “Everything you need to know is on there. You will leave tomorrow. Be safe, Prowl.”

The Praxian rose to his pedes and saluted. “You, too, Prime.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always loved the idea that Jazz and Prowl have spark resonance, so that's what they have here^^   
> (which is what they found out for those who skipped the NSFW)
> 
> Also, I wonder if taking Sunny and Sides away from Bluestreak while Prowl and Blue are travelling is going to have any consequences... ;)
> 
> Anyways, merry Christmas (or happy holidays for those who don't celebrate Christmas:)) and a happy new year! I hope you can enjoy the holidays despite everything!


	16. Chapter 15: Unwanted Feelings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two mechs struggle with their feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there! Been a while since the last chapter, sorry for that. Also sorry for not answering your comments, but life's busy:)
> 
> This little chapter was typed today, it just felt right... hope you like it:)

Deadlock was watching the Autobot ship, patiently waiting for its team to return. The femme who had been left behind had already been offlined after he had learned from her that the Autobot Second, Prowl, was on his way to Tetrahex and vulnerable to attack. Deadlock had left her at the entrance of the ship as a welcome back present for the other Autobots. Whoever they were, they would meet Primus by the end of the orn once he was through with them. 

Rage boiled inside him and he longed to vent his frustrations on someone who wouldn’t cripple the Decepticon forces. Besides, Deadlock didn’t know if Megatron would forgive him just yet if he were to demolish his troops. Megatron’s disappointment in him and subsequent punishment was after all the reason why he had come to kill some Autobots. 

He cycled his optics to get a better look at a movement behind the ship and smiled when he saw an Autobot. _Bingo._ A pity, though, because the mech was kind of cute. Small, but not too much, flame coloured with a golden phoenix on his chest and a golden spoiler that was matched by a chevron. _Hm. Very cute_. But he wasn’t here to frag anybody, he was here to _kill_. 

So, Deadlock slowly pulled out blaster and carefully pointed it at the Autobot’s chest. Something had him hesitate though. Maybe he should just shoot to cripple? Have his way with the mech before killing him? It would definitely take away most of his anger. Moving his servo to shot at the mech’s t-cog, he was about to pull the trigger when another Autobot came into view. 

Deadlock froze. _Unicron slag him._

It was Ratchet.

Mixed feelings rose up inside him and the servo holding the blaster lowered itself without him making a conscious decision. He had thought he had overcome his reluctance to kill his carrier, but apparently, he hadn’t. If anyone would have been near him at this moment, they would have felt shock, longing, hate, desperation swirling in his EM field. No, this couldn’t be. He couldn’t feel _compassion_ for his enemy. 

Even if the enemy had been very important to him once. 

_No_. 

Deadlock clenched his dentae and pointed his blaster at the medic. He would shoot Ratchet now. To proof to himself that he was perfectly capable of harming him. Yes. He lowered the blaster. _Fraggit all._ He growled softly and turned away. He would find someone else to kill. And frag.

***

Knock Out was a very annoying, narcissistic and arrogant mech, but he did his job well. Also, he didn’t ask any questions about where his patients acquired their injuries. No, he was too busy talking about either himself, somebody’s poor finish or the newest gossip around. He loved being the centre of gossip very much as well – every time someone had mocked him for being an Autobot slut, he had preened and answered with glee, “So good a frag the Autobot switched sides.”

Deadlock put up with it only because Knock Out was one of the best, would polish his plating and leave him in peace should he really be mad at something. 

This orn, the small red and white medic was chattering about his upcoming bonding ceremony. He and Breakdown (an Autobot traitor – Deadlock despised traitors) had finally gotten their required quartex off, and they would go to Tyrest to celebrate. Their honeymoon would be at a small cottage at the Rust Sea that the ‘gracious Lord Megatron’ had placed at their disposal. 

How Megatron had come to own that particular cottage, Knock Out didn’t know nor care, but he was very excited to use it. _Very excited_. Deadlock shuddered and hoped that Megatron had borne in mind that every surface of that cottage would be defiled by the end of the quartex – and the surroundings probably as well. 

Knock Out popped out another dent, and Deadlock winced. It had been a particular deep one that had grazed some internal line. “Haven’t ever seen you in such a bad shape before, chéri.” Knock Out commented and straightened an Energon line. 

“Bad fight.” Deadlock replied. 

The medic snorted. “I just hope I won’t have to fix the other bot.” 

Deadlock glanced at him, then glared at the window opposite to him. “They’re dead.” 

“And another one found himself in your deadly lock.” Knock Out chuckled. 

“You’re not even half as funny as you think you are.” Deadlock growled. 

Knock Out grinned and one of his servos transformed into a polisher. “Alright, no jokes for you, chouchou.” 

Deadlock scrunched up his face. “Shooshoo?” 

Knock Out laughed and petted Deadlock’s helm. “Don’t worry your pretty head over it and let me redo your paint. The way you look is an embarrassment. Seriously.” 

The taller mech merely huffed and shuttered his optics. Might as well enjoy himself, right?

 _Red, orange and golden plating, a cute spoiler and an even cuter smile._ Deadlock growled and onlined his optics again. _Primus_. 

“Someone’s in a good mood.” The medic observed with a raised brow, and Deadlock huffed. “One would think you’d be in a better one after killing. Maybe you should go visit Rung.” 

“I’m not happy after killing.” Deadlock growled. “And neither do I need some shrink.”

Knock Out paused his movements, glanced at Deadlock, then continued his work with a shrug. “Could’ve fooled me, Schätzchen.” 

The rest of the appointment passed in silence.

***

Deadlock hated Autobots. With a passion. Even his creators were detested. Which is why a certain fire-coloured mech should _not_ have the ability of crawling under his plating. But he did. One single wiggle of that cute spoiler, and Deadlock halted, only halfway killing the mech in his servos. The mech whimpered and Deadlock finished killing him, optics never leaving that slim frame. Primus, but he was beautiful. 

Before he knew it, Deadlock was sprinting over the battlefield, planning of having his prize tonight. He wanted this mech, this masterpiece, underneath him, writhing as he got fragged, helplessly moaning as he had his wicked way with him, confused about wanting what he shouldn’t. He would make him beg for sweet release and deliver after he had had his share. His fingers itched to touch that plating, his lips prickled as he imagined devouring that delicious-looking Autobot. 

Someone slammed into his side, effectively bringing him off course. Deadlock growled and slashed at his offender, drawing Energon from a delicate line. The Autobot snarled and brought down a knife, but Deadlock easily evaded the attack and threw the other mech off him, then jumped to his pedes. _Oh, great_. It was Springer, the Autobot hero. Deadlock hated him even more than the average bot. And now he had gotten between Deadlock and his prize. 

The Decepticon transformed his right servo into a blade and was about to charge the green tripleformer, when a familiar command sounded over the battlefield. 

“Decepticons: retreat.” 

Even in Soundwave’s monotone it was enough to grate on Deadlock’s ever-thin patience. He growled at Springer, glanced one last time at the flame-coloured Autobot, then turned around and retreated with his fellow Decepticons. Retreating had happened more often since that Praxian Royal had joined the ‘Bots. _Fraggin’ Prowl for spike-blocking him without even being present._

But Deadlock would get his chance. 

No matter what.

But first, Prowl had to go.

***

Barricade was fuming as he listened to Blurr’s report. The need to gut the Decepticon intelligence agent was getting harder and harder to control, but Barricade somehow managed that miraculous feat. He didn’t want to face Shockwave’s wrath after mutilating his… well, whatever Shockwave regarded the lithe racer as. They were bondmates according to both of them, but there was certainly no love involved from the scientist’s side. Then again, Shockwave had been shadowplayed, so there was that. It didn’t mean he wouldn’t destroy anyone who put even as much as a _scratch_ on the racer’s blue frame. 

So yes, Barricade would not touch the intelligent agent, no matter how much he wanted to. He would find some unfortunate mech or femme later and release his frustration on them. Because hearing how Blurr reported with his usual eagerness to please his bondmate about how Prowl was in a _relationship_ with someone that wasn’t Barricade had the black Praxian’s engine revving – and not in a good way. 

And to make matters worse, his beloved Prowl was involved with that piece of slag from the Polyhexian slums. Autobot Third in Command and Head of Special Operations, General Jazz. A window popped up on Barricade’s HUD, informing him that his servos had been punctured, and yes, Barricade’s claws were piercing his armor. Red optics watched detachedly how pink Energon dripped from the wounds, but he couldn’t care less.

How could Prowl stoop so low? What did he see in that Polyhexian scoundrel? Barricade snarled lowly. The mere thought of a mech other than him touching Prowl, _interfacing_ with him, seeing the monochrome Praxian in the throes of passion that Barricade wasn’t responsible for, it set his Energon boiling. _No one_ was allowed to touch Prowl except for Barricade, _no one_ was allowed to have his spark. Prowl belonged to Barricade, and no one else. Especially not that Polyhexian scrap metal. 

Seriously, what did Prowl want with Jazz? He was a serial killer, a torturer and rapist. Barricade, on the other servo, was a Praxian noble who served a noble cause. They had _two creations_ together, for frag’s sake. And that Polyhexian low life dared to get in between them. Just wait until Barricade got his claws on Jazz’s plating, he would show him who Prowl truly belonged to. And Barricade didn’t share his possessions. He would kill the Polyhexian with great pleasure, just as he had killed Strider, and he would get Prowl back. 

A small smile appeared on Barricade’s face. Yes, Prowl would be his again. His spark thrummed excitingly at the thought; it missed its second half dearly. Barricade would finally be happy again, like he hadn’t been since Prowl had exiled him from Praxus. 

Barricade raised a clawed servo and Blurr stopped mid-speech, looking at him with a questioning tilt of his helm. Shockwave was also focusing his attention on Barricade, but his faceless head and emotionless field didn’t give any hint about what he thought of the interruption. 

“I don’t care about who Prowl is allowing to frag him, and how many are doing it. Get me Bluestreak, now. It’s time I showed my creation what being a Praxian truly means.” Barricade smirked. “And it’s time for Operation Space to start.” 

Shockwave scrutinized him, then gave a sharp, single nod. _Efficient as always_ , Barricade thought uncordially. “I will inform Lord Megatron.” He turned to his bondmate. “Get us the youngling. Deadlock found out that Prowl and his creation are currently on their way to Tetrahex. He will attack them with a strike team, an excellent opportunity for you to take the target.” He paused and Blurr raised an elegant optic ridge. Shockwave trailed his left servo down the Velocitronian’s chestseam, causing a hitch in the racer’s vents. “Do not disappoint me, and you will be rewarded.” 

The naked longing on Blurr’s faceplate had Barricade look away uncomfortably. He knew how the racer felt. It was how he himself felt every single orn apart from Prowl. Barricade vented deeply and watched Blurr salute before running away. Soon. Prowl would be his again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soo, I have an entire chapter focused on Roddy and Deadlock. I can either post it as the next chapter if you're interested, or if I'll post it in its own story you prefer that:)


	17. Chapter 16: An Autobot Went Into A Bar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m fantasising about someone else.” Hot Rod slapped a servo over his mouth, but the glyphs had already left his vocaliser.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since there was interest in Roddy/Deadlock and Deadlock's past with Ratchet, I decided to post the chapter:)
> 
> I'm posting it so soon after the other because this one was already completed, but don't expect fast updates in the future^^

Hot Rod entered a bar, feeling high on success. He had successfully downloaded sensitive data from Shockwave’s lab without getting caught, and the Decepticon scientist none the wiser (hopefully). Now, coming slowly down from the rush of his (unauthorised) mission, he wanted nothing more than drink some engex before returning home to his carrier.

“A Velocitronian Sunset for me, please!” Hot Rod ordered, sliding up on a barstool. 

The bartender grinned and pulled out a glass. “One Velocitronian Sunset coming up in a klik.”

Hot Rod gave him a thumbs-up, allowing himself to relax a bit. A few joors, and the Autobots back at Iacon would have to admit that Hot Rod wasn’t only hot air and empty words. His spoiler wiggled happily as he watched the bartender mixing his drink.

A klik later, the green-orange cocktail was placed in front of him, a rust stick attached to the rim of the glass in decoration. “One Velocitronian Sunset, as ordered.”

“Thanks, mech.” Hot Rod sighed and took a big gulp of his drink, relishing in the taste and the burning sensation the high grade left as it travelled down his intake. He exvented and tension slowly left his body. This was life.

“A Velocitronian Sunset?” A deep, smooth voice on his right suddenly said. “Isn’t that a bit too much for a bot like you?”

Hot Rod frowned and turned to face the mech who had spoken, having every intention to tell him where to stick his opinion. Only, when his optics fell on the mech, the glyphs lying on the tip of his glossa died in his vocaliser. _Primus_. A sly smirk curved full lips beneath deep, crimson optics. The face was framed by a helm full of sharp angles, a short black chevron with a golden chevron shield on a crimson background. Two head fins stuck from above oblique discs. He was mainly black, white and blue, with golden and red accents all over his frame. _Gorgeous_. 

“What? Turbofox got your glossa?” The mech asked. 

“N-No.” Hot Rod replied. Ugh, he sounded like an idiot! “And why should it be too much?”

The mech smirked. “Just because. Also, you’re tiny.” He took the drink and took a sip. “This is good.”

“I’m not! And hey, this is my drink!” Hot Rod groused, standing up and trying to reach the glass. The mech merely stood up and held the drink up high, out of the Autobot’s reach. Primus, he was _tall_. Hot Rod had unfortunately inherited Orion Pax’s height, meaning that he was only a helm taller than a minibot and he only was only able to reach this mech’s neck with outstretched arms. So yeah, he was kind of tiny. Growling in annoyance, Hot Rod jumped to get his drink, but the mech only laughed. “Stop it!”

“You want your drink back?” The mech asked and bent down. “Kiss me. Kiss me like you mean it.”

“The frag?!”

The mech grinned. “That a no? A pity, ‘cause you’re quite hot.” He purred, directly into Hot Rod’s audial. 

Hot Rod shivered and turned his helm, lips grazing soft cheeks. He looked up into crimson optics, then shuttered his own blue ones and pressed his lips against the stranger’s. It started chaste, nearly innocent, until the mech wrapped his arms around Hot Rod and lifted him up to the barstool to better plunge his glossa into the Autobot’s mouth for a thorough exploration. His knee nudged the Nyonite’s legs apart, and he stepped forward in between them. Hot Rod moaned helplessly, leaning into the mech’s strong embrace. 

“Hmm,” The mech hummed, and pulled away. He looked at Hot Rod with a lazy smirk on his lips, then leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to Hot Rod’s mouth. “A pleasure, little Autobot.” Then he was gone, leaving behind a befuddled Nyonite.

Blinking, Hot Rod looked at his drink and took a big gulp, watching the mech weaving through the patrons on his way towards the door. Hot Rod frowned. Something was wrong. He went through his possessions and – He threw a few shanix on the bar before looking for the mech, gun in servo. That glitchhead had used the kiss to hack into Hot Rod’s subspace, stealing the data chip with the information from Shockwave’s lab!

Hot Rod pointed his gun – and shot. The mech threw himself aside, but Hot Rod had still managed to graze his shoulder panels. 

“Hey!” The bartender shouted. “No shooting!” Next thing his greying frame collapsed, a knife sticking out from his chest right where his spark had been a few kliks ago. Someone screamed – the pub had been filled with neutrals – but Hot Rod paid them no attention as he sprinted after the mech who had stolen his precious cargo.

The moment he was outside of the building he transformed and gunned his engine, using his outlier abilities to boost his speed. It didn’t take long for Hot Rod to catch up with the thief once they were outside of the small town and he transformed mid-drive, utilizing momentum to leap onto the thief. The mech cursed and changed to his root form, twisting mid-air so that he landed on top of Hot Rod. His crimson optics no longer held their teasing glint, instead shone with cold cruelty as he held Hot Rod down. A purple insignia pranged on the centre of his chest.

_Oh, frag_.

“Stop struggling, and I may let you live.” The mech hissed, straddling Hot Rod’s thighs as he held down both of the Nyonite’s servos with one of his own. 

“No, let me go and give me my stuff back!” Hot Rod struggled some more, but it was obvious that his attempts to get the Decepticon off him were futile. Crimson optics narrowed and the second servo bent Hot Rod’s spoiler. “OW!”

“Oh, stop whining. And this?” The Decepticon replied and waved the chip in front of Hot Rod’s olfactory. “I don’t believe it was me who stole something in the first place.” 

“You stole a kiss.” _What the frag?_ Where the frag had that come from? Hot Rod halted his ventilations as the Decepticon stilled, looking down at him.

“I guess I did.” He grinned, but it wasn’t a kind smile. “Two, to be exact.” He leaned closer, vents ghosting over Hot Rod’s faceplate. “Can I get one more?”

“What? No– mmph!” Gentle lips shut Hot Rod up, and a clever tongue slipped into Hot Rod’s mouth for a deep, deep kiss. Hot Rod mewled softly, pressing himself up into the Decepticon.

“That’s it.” The Decepticon murmured, then abruptly pulled away. 

Hot Rod was suddenly very much aware of his furiously working cooling fans and that his servos were bound together by a _golden rope_ out of all things. “You glitch, let go of me!”

“You look good like this.” The Decepticon smirked and stood up in a smooth motion. “Very well. I–”

Hot Rod used his outlier abilities to heat up his arms to temperatures high enough to melt the metal rope, then lunged for the Decepticon. His optics followed the pathway the data chip took as it was thrown through the air and quickly jumped after it, completely ignoring the Decepticon. Which he shouldn’t have done, since the Decepticon drove a knife through Hot Rod’s left pede. 

Hot Rod screamed in pain and reflexively kicked at the Decepticon, hitting him square in the face. The ‘Con growled and let go of the knife in order to touch his face. Without thinking any further about it, Hot Rod took hold of the data chip, opened his chest plates and stuck it against his spark casing. It all happened before the Decepticon reached Hot Rod. 

The mech pushed him to the ground and leaned in, pressing his forearm against Hot Rod’s throat. “The data chip, Autobot, or I’ll kill you.”

“Do… do your worst.” Hot Rod wheezed, his servos futilely pushing against the Decepticon’s arm. The pressure increased. Hot Rod looked up, unafraid. If he were to die now, it was alright. The only thing he would be sorry for was the pain his offlining would cause his carrier. A shot rang through the air, and the Decepticon leapt aside, optics blitzing angrily. 

“Deadlock, step away from Autobot Hot Rod and raise your servos above your helm.” Hot Rod could have wept when heard Springer’s voice. He looked up, spark spinning happily, to take in the triplechanger’s familiar green frame. 

The Decepticon – Deadlock – raised his servos, an ugly sneer on his face. Then his expression morphed into something else and he looked down at Hot Rod, grinning roguishly. “I enjoyed our kisses, Hot Rod. We should do it again.” He smirked at Springer. “Say hello to Ratchet and Wheeljack for me.” Deadlock winked at Hot Rod. “Until next time.” And then he threw a hand grenade at them, using the ensuing distraction to flee.

While Bulkhead and Rack’n’Ruin defused the grenade, Springer held out a servo for Hot Rod and helped him up. “You alright, Roddy?”

“’M fine.” Hot Rod murmured, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh, thank you for rescuing me.” 

Springer sighed. “Sure thing. We’ve been hunting Deadlock for a quartex now.” He looked to the direction where the Decepticon had disappeared. “Fraggit.” 

“I’m sorry.” Hot Rod muttered. 

“It’s fine.” Springer smiled gently, before turning worried optics to Hot Rod’s left pede. “Let’s take you back to Iacon. Ratchet should have a look at you.”

***

“What in Mortilus’ name did you hot head do now?” Ratchet’s growl greeted Hot Rod as he entered medbay, aided by Springer. 

“Nothing, I swear!” Hot Rod protested as he was gently led to a berth. 

Ratchet’s scowl deepened when he saw the wound in Hot Rod’s pede. “Nothing, eh? And how did this happen, then?”

“It wasn’t my fault.” Hot Rod muttered. “Some crazy Decepticon named Deadlock attacked me.”

There was a loud _CLANG_ and Hot Rod and Springer stared with bewildered optics at the medic. The tweezers that had previously been in Ratchet’s servo were lying on the floor. “Deadlock?” He repeated in a strangled voice. 

“Yes.” Springer narrowed his optics. “Do you know him?” 

Ratchet turned to inspect Hot Rod’s pede. The Nyonite was starting to think that they wouldn’t get an answer, when the old medic spoke up. “You could say that.” 

“He said that we should say hello to you and Wheeljack.” Hot Rod supplied.

“Of course he did.” Ratchet muttered darkly. “Stupid glitch.” Hot Rod grimaced as the antiseptic stung where it touched his internals. “Take my advice and stay away from him. He’s dangerous, one of Megatron’s top cyberhounds.” 

“How do you know him?” Hot Rod asked, then yelped as the medic pinched one of his damaged lines. 

“Long story and none of your business.” Ratchet replied. He looked up to briefly glare at Springer. “You’re perfectly healthy, so get out of my medbay. I have enough of noisy bots loitering around, don’t you add to this.”

Springer lifted his servos in a pacifying manner. “I’m going, I’m going.” He smiled at Hot Rod. “See you later.” 

Hot Rod grinned back. “See ya.”

Ratchet waited until Springer was out of hearing range, then spoke up. “Don’t pull stunts like this again, kid. Your Carrier was worried sick. And there’s enough slag goin’ on without you adding to it.” 

“Yes, Ratchet.” Hot Rod sighed. “But I got what we needed!” 

“You don’t have to tell me that, I’m just a medic.” Ratchet huffed. “But I’m also Optimus’ amica, and I felt what he felt, and his thoughts were mostly focused on you the last decaorns. So, before you go running off without proper training or backup again, talk to the appropriate divisions first and get one of them to do it or join one of those divisions and get proper training. Understood?” 

Hot Rod exvented. “Yes, understood.” 

“Good.” Ratchet gave his bandaged pede a gentle slap. “No transforming for the next decaorn. Now get out, and come every other cycle for check-ups, okay?”

“Yep.” Hot Rod hopped off the berth and left the medbay as fast as he could. 

Ratchet stared after him, waited until he left before leaning against the wall and sliding down to the ground. ::Jacky? I need you.::

::Coming. What’s up?::

The medic stared at his servos, an old, familiar, ever-present ache gripping at his spark. ::Deadlock.::

Silence. Then, “Deadlock?”

Ratchet looked up at the approaching form of his sparkmate, then leaned his helm against the scientist’s shoulder after he had sat down next to Ratchet. “He attacked Hot Rod. Extended his greetings. Fraggin’ glitch.” His tone was bitter, his subharmonics resigned. “It never gets easier.” 

“I know.” Wheeljack murmured, gently taking the medic into his arms. “It’s alright, I’m here for you.” 

Ratchet exvented slowly and shook his helm. “Sometimes I wish he didn’t exist.” A pause. “We need to tell Prime.” 

Wheeljack tightened his arms. “If you think it’s the right thing to do, I will support you.”

The medic turned to face his sparkmate, searching his optics. Then he nodded and pressed a quick kiss on Wheeljack’s lips. “I do.”

***

There were a few mechs on base that didn’t bother to knock at the door or ask for permission to enter. Jazz was the paradigm in this case. Ratchet was also one of them, but only with certain mechs or when he felt he was warranted to barge into someone’s office because of medical reasons (two of his most frequent cases were Prime and Prowl).

This orn, Ratchet did ask for permission to enter his amica’s office, Wheeljack by his side as a comforting presence. Sometimes, Ratchet wondered how he had managed to catch the scientist’s attention. Sure, they had worked together several times for scientific papers or doing research together, but Ratchet knew himself. He wasn’t the easiest mech to be around, always grumpy and ever cold. He didn’t let anyone get close to him easily; it would be the end of him in his field of work. 

Yes, Ratchet had learned the lesson the hard way when, despite the warnings of his mentor, he had gotten close to a patient of his, a little sparkling with a spark disease. There had been an experimental treatment, and seven of the eight surgeries done before had been successful, two of them on sparklings. So, Ratchet had gotten close to that sparkling he had treated. It had been a mistake. One he would never forget.

The surgery had been a success, but an until then unknown side effect had caused the little one to suffer immense pain due to spark implosion as its spark slowly dissolved over the course of a decaorn. Ratchet had been unable to do anything, had only been able helplessly sit by the sparkling’s side to comfort him the best he could. After the sparkling had died, he had taken a whole quartex off to centre himself again. For several thousands of vorns since then, Ratchet had never let anyone get close to him again, patients or other mechs.

That had changed when, somehow, a little data clerk named Orion Pax had wormed himself into Ratchet’s spark. He and Ariel had come to his clinic when another friend of theirs, Dion, had been hurt during an accident on the loading docks where he had worked. Orion had taken an instant liking to Ratchet despite his gruff manner and done his best to befriend him, ignoring the obvious discouragement on Ratchet’s side. But that glitch had just been too stubborn for his own good, and before Ratchet had known it, he had become Orion’s, Ariel’s and Dion’s Amica Endura. And even when Dion had died during an early Decepticon attack, Ratchet had never regretted becoming part of their group. 

Shortly after Ratchet had become Orion’s amica, he had met Wheeljack for the first time in person. Despite having learned his lesson in attachments, Ratchet still wanted to find a cure for the sparkling’s spark disease to help future patients from suffering the same fate. Wheeljack had offered to partner up with Ratchet once again since he had done research in that field as well. 

While working with the scientist (being his grumpy old self), Ratchet had realised that he was falling for the funny, if accident-prone, optimist. He had gone into denial, pushed Wheeljack away as he always did when noticing that someone was getting too close to his spark, and contemplated continuing the research on his own. 

Wheeljack, however – bless his stubborn spark (all the mechs around Ratchet seemed to be very stubborn) – hadn’t given up, refused to go away when Ratchet had dismissed him, until one evening he had kissed Ratchet. On his lips. With glossa and all. Without permission. And then he had fragged the medic within an inch of his life, overloading Ratchet again and again, worshipped his spark with his own, until Ratchet had to admit, _yes, he was attracted to this stupid glitchhead, and yes, we can date, now can we continue with the research?_

As Ratchet had said, he didn’t know what he had done for Wheeljack to like him. Out of that wild night with both of them being irresponsible, they had kindled Grimlock. (And no, the irony had not been lost on Ratchet that he, a medic, had had unprotected sparkmerge.) While it had been kind of awkward, having a creation together when only having been dating since the conception of said sparkling, they somehow made it work. Well enough that they decided to bond during Grimlock’s sparklinghood. Ratchet had loved his bitlet unconditionally (but only after Grimlock was a few vorns old, the little one had to fight his way into the medic’s spark), still did, in fact. 

Later, after having been bonded for a few thousand vorns, they had agreed to create once again. So, Ratchet had carried their second creation, excited to have a little sparkling once more, no matter how much he complained about carrying. As the saying goes, medics were the worst patients, and Ratchet was no exception.

The sparkling had been the first being Ratchet had loved without it having to fight for it since the patient he had lost. They named it Drift and he was their little ray of sunshine. Drift was a bundle of energy, so different to Grimlock, and always wanted to have something to occupy his processor with. Ratchet had usually taken Drift with him to the hospital in Iacon, and later to Polyhex when he had opened his own clinic in the Dead End. 

Ratchet never knew what had gone wrong, but somehow Drift had gotten involved in the drug scene of Polyhex. He had nearly died of overdose several times, only saved by Polyhexians bringing Drift to Ratchet’s clinic, knowing that the medic would help him no matter what (nobody had suspected Drift of being Ratchet’s creation with how he behaved).

Wheeljack had never blamed Ratchet for Drift falling victim to drugs, never blamed him for losing him to the Decepticons. But Ratchet blamed himself, blamed himself for not noticing that he was losing his sparkling to the very cause that his amica and first creation were fighting against. That he himself was fighting against.

He could still remember the orn Drift had entered his clinic, optics a dark crimson instead of their natural blue, Decepticon sigil pranging on his chest. He had informed Ratchet that Polyhex was a Decepticon city and that no Autobots were tolerated here. He had an orn to leave, otherwise, he, _Deadlock_ , would see to Ratchet’s demise. Ratchet had been devastated. No amount of pleading had reached through to Deadlock, and at the end of the dark cycle, Ratchet had left Polyhex and his clinic behind, spark heavy, and once again mourning the loss of someone very dear to him.

While Optimus had known that Ratchet and Wheeljack had had a second sparkling, he had never known what had happened to Drift since Ratchet had always clammed up when the Prime even so much as hinted about wanting to talk about Drift.

But with Deadlock showing up and having attacked Hot Rod – _Optimus’ creation_ – Ratchet felt that he had to come clean about what had happened to Drift. Especially since he had chewed Optimus out for not telling him had he had carried a sparkling. Primus, Optimus had carried _Megatron’s_ sparkling. 

Ratchet had been friends with the gladiator turned warlord through Orion Pax, and he had respected the former miner. But the moment his thirst for equality had turned too _blood_ thirsty in Ratchet’s opinion (and that with him being a medic!), he hadn’t bothered in keeping up with what Orion was doing with his gladiator, and he had been occupied with his clinic and sparkling. 

“Enter.” Optimus’ deep, gentle voice sounded from the intercome next to the door, and Ratchet and Wheeljack entered the Prime’s office. The red and blue mech smiled happily when he saw his amica and close friend enter his bureau. “Ratchet, Wheeljack, what can I do for you?”

“Listen. We need to tell you something.” Ratchet said while sitting down. Wheeljack took place in the seat next to him and reached for Ratchet’s servo, intertwining their fingers. 

Optimus took one look at their servos and straightened in his seat, a serious expression on his handsome faceplates. “Alright.” 

Ratchet took a deep vent, gently squeezed Wheeljack’s servo, and started to tell his best friend about his lost creation.

***

Hot Rod was sitting at a table in the mess hall, helm resting in his left servo while his right one picked at his half-full cube. Ratchet had thrown him out of the med bay not a joor ago, but he felt as if he needed to return. Surely, he must have a system malfunction because he just couldn’t stop thinking about that Decepticon, Deadlock. 

It’s just… No one had ever kissed Hot Rod like this. Yes, Hot Rod flirted with everyone who flirted back, fragged whoever was willing to be fragged or got fragged by those who wanted him, but he had never bothered to get to know someone and start a relationship. Hot Rod was happy as he was, single and without having to worry about someone else. 

Maybe that had been his mistake. It had made him vulnerable to the Decepticon’s advances, and now the only thing he could think about was Deadlock, his soft lips and insistent kisses, and how he had felt against him. Also, his looks. Whoever had created that hotbot had to be recommended, they had done a good job. 

The most annoying thing about this, however, was while Hot Rod couldn’t stop thinking about Deadlock, the Decepticon was probably not even wasting one single thought about Hot Rod. He probably used that trick, kissing unsuspecting Autobots and robbing them of their values, very often. 

Hot Rod groaned and let his helm fall onto the table with a clang. No, the worst thing about this situation was that Deadlock was a primusforsaken _Decepticon_ , and therefore the _enemy_ , and Hot Rod was _still_ fantasising about him!

“You alright, Roddy?” 

Hot Rod started and looked up into Springer’s worried faceplate. He felt himself heat up and looked away. Before Deadlock confusing him, he kind of probably maybe might have had a crush on the wrecker in front of him, though he had known that there was no way he would have a chance with the war hero. Now, he wasn’t so sure about his feelings anymore. And all because of a few fragging kisses. 

Maybe it was because he had never been kissed before by someone else who really meant it. He looked up into Springer’s concerned face, his optic ridges furrowed because of the Nyonite’s lack of response. Maybe… 

Faster than the wrecker could react, Hot Rod surged up and caught the green mech’s helm between his servos, pressing their lips together in a desperate kiss. Springer made a surprised noise, then he wrapped his arms around Hot Rod and kissed him back, deep and passionate. Hot Rod gasped, and Springer used the opportunity to push his glossa into the smaller flame-coloured mech, deepening the kiss.

Springer was good, very good, and Hot Rodd soon lost himself in the sensation, whimpering softly as he tried to get closer. Springer chuckled and nibbled at his lower lip before drawing it into his mouth, sucking gently until Hot Rod was sure that everyone was going to be able to see that he had been thoroughly claimed.

The triplechanger finally released his lip and pulled away, only to lean his helm against Hot Rod’s. Both of them were panting, and their cooling fans were spinning fast. “Can I ask what brought this on?” Springer asked. 

Hot Rod sighed. “I don’t know.” He lied. 

Springer locked his gaze with the Nyonite’s, then pressed a gentle kiss to the smaller mech’s lips. “Want to move this to my berth?” He asked. 

Excitement surged through Hot Rod and he nodded. Even if this didn’t solve his problem about Deadlock, he was distracted from him for the time being. At least, that was what he told himself as he fell into the wrecker’s berth and spread his legs. 

That’s what he told himself when he found himself a second time in Springer’s berth, as well the third and fourth time. By the twentieth time, Hot Rod had to admit that he had fragged up big time. Because while a part of him liked the triple changer very much, the even bigger part was still mooning over the Decepticon and knew that if he continued this charade, Springer was going to get hurt. Because the wrecker was getting more and more affectionate, and Hot Rod could see how the green mech was falling for him. Guilt surged up in him every time Springer touched him, and his spark clenched when they kissed or interfaced. 

He couldn’t do this.

***

“I have heard that you are in a relationship with Springer.” 

Hot Rod flinched at the voice and turned to face his carrier. For a mech of his size, Optimus walked astonishing silently. Then the words registered and he looked away, unable to hide the guilt seeping into his field. He could feel the frown in his carrier’s EMF and braced himself for the talk he was about to have. 

“Rodimus?” Optimus asked, his voice gentle and worried at the same time. 

“I’m fantasising about someone else.” Hot Rod slapped a servo over his mouth, but the glyphs had already left his vocaliser. 

There was silence, then, “I do not understand.” 

The Nyonite sighed and expelled hot air from his vents. “The attack after I retrieved the information from Shockwave’s lab? I told you Deadlock had distracted me before stealing the data chip.” Optimus made an encouraging sound, and Hot Rod continued. “Well, he kissed me. Repeatedly.” He wound his arms around himself, unable to face his carrier. “And I can’t stop thinking about him. I know it’s not fair to Springer, but… I can’t tell him.”

Optimus sighed softly, then drew Hot Rod in for an embrace. “It would be better for Springer if you told him that your arrangement is only casual, if you haven’t established that. And there is no shame in being attracted to a Decepticon, as long as it does not impair your judgement.”

“As with you and Megatron?” Hot Rod bit out, before slumping into himself. “Sorry, that was uncalled for.” 

“No, it’s alright.” Optimus murmured. “I cannot fault you for liking a Decepticon when I am conjunx with his leader _and_ prone to irrational decisions concerning him.” 

Hot Rod breathed out a laugh. “Yeah, wouldn’t want to call the Prime a hypocrite.” He sighed. “I’ll tell Springer and apologise when I see him and hope that he doesn’t hate me.” 

“That’s all anyone can do.” Optimus said, sending his love both through his field and their bond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nano-klik ~ 1 Millisecond  
> Klik -> 100 Nano-kliks ~ 1 Second  
> Breem -> 100 Kliks ~ 1 Minute  
> Joor -> 100 Breem ~ 1 Hour   
> Orn -> 56 Joor ~ 1 Day (= 8 earth days)  
> Cycle -> Half an orn (= 4 earth days)  
> Light-cycle  
> Dark-cycle  
> Deca-Cycle -> 5 orn ~ 1/2 Week  
> Decaorn -> 10 orn ~ 1 Week  
> Quartex -> 4 Decaorns ~ 1 Month  
> Stellar-Cycle -> 13 Quartexes~ 1 Year  
> Decivorn -> 8.3 Stellar-Cycles  
> Vorn -> 83 Stellar-Cycles
> 
> Just noticed I've never put it up before... also, "~" means equivalent in this case, not the actual time. If somebody want to calculate the Earth time corresponding to my Cybertronian time units, feel free to let me know ot the results, I'm too lazy to do that...:)

**Author's Note:**

> So, what do you think? Hate it? Love it? Any errors? Please tell me:) I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!


End file.
